v^'^X^     "---V   '  - 


Q 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


"AT  EVENING  TIME  IT  SHALL  BE  LIGHT" 


Come,  Phil,"  she  cried,  "  come,  crown  me  Queen  of  May 
here  in  April!  " 


THE  PRICE 
OF  THE  PRAIRIE 

A  STORY  OF  KANSAS 


By 
fTrPMARGARET  HILL  McCARTER  }  IS60-V13  \ 

Author  of  "THE  COTTONWOOD'S  STORY^  "  CUDDY'S  BABY,"  ETC. 


WITH  FIVE  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR 
BY  J.  N.  MARCHAND 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO 
1910 


Copyright 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1910 

Published  October  8,  1910 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 


PRESS  OF  THE  VAIL  COMPANY 
COSHOCTON,  U    S.  A. 


This  little  love  story  of  the  prairies  is  dedicated  to  all  who  be- 
lieve that  the  defence  of  the  helpless  is  heroism;  that  the  pro- 
tection of  the  home  is  splendid  achievement;  and,  that  the  storm, 
and  stress,  and  patient  endurance  of  the  day  will  bring  us  at  last 
to  the  peace  of  the  purple  twilight. 


r 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  Page 

PROEM  ix 

I  Springvale  by  the  Neosho 13 

II  Jean    Pahusca 25 

III  The  Hermit's   Cave 32 

IV  In  the  Prairie  Twilight 43 

V  A  Good  Indian 56 

VI  When  the  Heart  Beats  Young 73 

VII  The  Foreshadowing  of  Peril 85 

VIII  The  Cost  of  Safety 99 

IX  The  Search  for  the  Missing 114 

X  O'Mie's  Choice 132 

XI  Golden  Days 150 

XII  A  Man's  Estate 166 

XIII  The  Topeka  Rally 184 

XIV  Deepening  Gloom 200 

XV  Rockport  and  "  Rockport " 217 

XVI  Beginning  Again 242 

XVII  In  the  Valley  of  the  Arickaree 261 

XVIII  The  Sunlight  on  Old  Glory 277 

XIX  A  Man's  Business 292 

XX  The  Cleft  in  the  Rock 3*7 

XXI  The  Call  to  Service 334 

XXII  The  Nineteenth  Kansas  Cavalry 354 

XXIII  In  Jean's  Land 370 

XXIV  The  Cry  of  Womanhood 390 

XXV  Judson  Summoned 403 

XXVI  O'Mie's  Inheritance 420 

XXVII  Sunset  by  the  Sweetwater 442 

XXVIII  The  Heritage 464 


PROEM 
"Nature  never  did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her" 

I  CAN  hear  it  always  — the  Call  of  the  Prairie.  The 
passing  of  sixty  Winters  has  left  me  a  vigorous  man, 
although  my  hair  is  as  white  as  the  January  snowdrift  in 
the  draws,  and  the  strenuous  events  of  some  of  the  years 
have  put  a  tax  on  my  strength.  I  shall  always  limp  a 
little  in  my  right  foot  —  that  was  left  out  on  the  plains 
one  freezing  night  with  nothing  under  it  but  the  earth,  and 
nothing  over  it  but  the  sky.  Still,  considering  that  al- 
though the  sixty  years  were  spent  mainly  in  that  pioneer 
time  when  every  day  in  Kansas  was  its  busy  day,  I  am  not 
even  beginning  to  feel  old.  Neither  am  I  sentimental  and 
inclined  to  poetry.  Life  has  given  me  mostly  her  prose 
selections  for  my  study. 

But  this  love  of  the  Prairie  is  a  part  of  my  being.  All 
the  comedy  and  tragedy  of  these  sixty  years  have  had 
them  for  a  setting,  and  I  can  no  more  put  them  out  of  my 
life  than  the  Scotchman  can  forget  the  heather,  or  the 
Swiss  emigrant  in  the  flat  green  lowland  can  forget  the 
icy  passes  of  the  glacier-polished  Alps.  Geography  is  an 
element  of  every  man's  life.  The  prairies  are  in  the  red 
corpuscles  of  my  blood.  Up  and  down  their  rippling  bil- 
lows my  memory  runs.  For  always  I  see  them, —  green 
and  blossom-starred  in  the  Springtime;  or  drenched  with 
the  driving  summer  deluge  that  made  each  draw  a  brim- 
ming torrent;  or  golden,  purple,  and  silver-rimmed  in 


PROEM 

the  glorious  Autumn.  I  have  seen  them  gray  in  the  twi- 
light, still  and  tenderly  verdant  at  noonday,  and  cold  and 
frost-wreathed  under  the  white  star-beams.  I  have  seen 
them  yield  up  their  rich  yellow  sheaves  of  grain,  and  I 
have  looked  upon  their  dreary  wastes  marked  with  the 
dull  black  of  cold  human  blood.  Plain  practical  man  of 
affairs  that  I  am,  I  come  back  to  the  blessed  prairies  for 
my  inspiration  as  the  tartan  warmed  up  the  heart  of 
Argyle. 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE 
PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER     I 
SPRINGVALE     BY    THE     NEOSHO 

Sweeter  to  me  than  the  salt  sea  spray,  the  fragrance  of  summer 

rains; 
Nearer  my  heart  than  the  mighty  hills  are  the  wind-swept  Kansas 

plains. 

Dearer  the  sight  of  a  shy  wild  rose  by  the  road-side's  dusty  way, 
Than  all  the  splendor  of  poppy-fields  ablaze  in  the  sun  of  May. 
Gay  as  the  bold  poinsettia  is,  and  the  burden  of  pepper  trees, 
The  sunflower,  tawny  and  gold  and  brown,  is  richer  to  me  than 

these ; 

And  rising  ever  above  the  song  of  the  hoarse,  insistent  sea, 
The  voice  of  the  prairie  calling,  calling  me. 

—  ESTHER  M.  CLARKE. 

WHENEVER  I  think  of  these  broad  Kansas  plains  I 
think  also  of  Marjie.  I  cannot  now  remember  the 
time  when  I  did  not  care  for  her,  but  the  day  when  O'mie 
first  found  it  out  is  as  clear  to  me  as  yesterday,  although 
that  was  more  than  forty  years  ago.  O'mie  was  the  red- 
dest-haired, best-hearted  boy  that  ever  laughed  in  the  face 
of  Fortune  and  made  friends  with  Fate  against  the  hardest 
odds.  His  real  name  was  O'Meara,  Thomas  O'Meara, 
but  we  forgot  that  years  ago. 

"  If  O'mie  were  set  down  in  the  middle  of  the  Sahara 

13 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Desert,"  my  Aunt  Candace  used  to  say,  "  there  'd  be  an 
oasis  a  mile  across  by  the  next  day  noon,  with  never  fail- 
ing water  and  green  trees  right  in  the  middle  of  it,  and 
O'mie  sitting  under  them  drinking  the  water  like  it  was 
Irish  rum." 

O'mie  would  always  grin  at  this  saying  and  reply  that, 
"  by  the  nixt  day  noon  follerin*  that,  the  rascally  gover'- 
mint  at  Washin'ton  would  come  along  an'  kick  him  out 
into  the  rid  san',  claimin'  that  that  particular  oasis  was 
an  Injun  riservation,  specially  craayted  by  Providence  fur 
the  dirthy  Osages, —  the  bastes !  " 

O'mie  hated  the  Indians,  but  he  was  a  friend  to  all 
the  rest  of  mankind.  Indeed  if  it  had  not  been  for  him 
I  should  not  have  had  that  limp  in  my  right  foot,  for  both 
of  my  feet  would  have  been  mouldering  these  many 
years  under  the  curly  mesquite  of  the  Southwest  plains. 
But  that  comes  later. 

We  were  all  out  on  the  prairie  hunting  for  our  cows 
that  evening  —  the  one  when  O'mie  guessed  my  secret. 
Marjie's  pony  was  heading  straight  to  the  west,  flying 
over  the  ground.  The  big  red  sun  was  slipping  down  a 
flame-wreathed  sky,  touching  with  fire  the  ragged  pen- 
nons of  a  blue-black  storm  cloud  hanging  sullenly  to  the 
northward,  and  making  an  indescribable  splendor  in  the 
far  southwest. 

Riding  hard  after  Marjie,  coming  at  an  angle  from 
the  bluff  above  the  draw,  was  an  Osage  Indian,  huge  as 
a  giant,  and  frenzied  with  whiskey.  I  must  have  turned 
a  white  despairing  face  toward  my  comrades,  and  I  was 
glad  afterward  that  I  was  against  the  background  of  that 
flaming  sunset  so  that  my  features  were  in  the  shadow. 
It  was  then  that  O'mie,  who  was  nearest  me,  looking 
steadily  in  my  eyes  said  in  a  low  voice: 

14 


SPRINGVALE    BY     THE     NEOSHO 

"Bedad,  Phil!  so  that's  how  it  is  wid  ye,  is  it?  Then 
we  Ve  got  to  kill  that  Injun  jist  fur  grandeur." 

I  knew  O'mie  for  many  years,  and  I  never  saw  him 
show  a  quiver  of  fear,  not  even  in  those  long  weary  days 
when,  white  and  hollow-cheeked,  he  waited  for  his  last 
enemy,  Death, —  whom  he  vanquished,  looking  up  into  my 
face  with  eyes  of  inexpressible  peace,  and  murmuring 
softly, 

"  Safe  in  the  arms  of  Jasus." 

Old  men  are  prone  to  ramble  in  their  stories,  and  I 
.am  not  old.  To  prove  that,  I  must  not  jiggle  with  these 
heads  and  tails  of  Time,  but  I  must  begin  earlier  and  fol- 
low down  these  eventful  years  as  if  I  were  a  real  novel- 
writer  with  consecutive  chapters  to  set  down. 

Springvale  by  the  Neosho  was  a  favorite  point  for  early 
settlers.  It  nestled  under  the  sheltered  bluff  on  the  west. 
There  were  never-failing  springs  in  the  rocky  outcrop. 
A  magnificent  grove  of  huge  oak  trees,  most  rare  in  the 
plains  country,  lined  the  river's  banks  and  covered  the 
fertile  lowlands.  It  made  a  landmark  of  the  spot,  this 
beautiful  natural  forest,  and  gave  it  a  place  on  the  map 
as  a  meeting-ground  for  the  wild  tribes  long  before  the 
days  of  civilized  occupation.  The  height  above  the  val- 
ley commands  all  that  wide  prairie  that  ripples  in  tree- 
less fertility  from  as  far  as  even  an  Indian  can  see  until 
it  breaks  off  with  that  cliff  that  walls  the  Neosho  bottom 
lands  up  and  down  for  many  a  mile.  To  the  southwest 
the  open  black  lowlands  along  Fingal's  Creek  beckoned  as 
temptingly  to  the  settler  as  did  the  Neosho  Valley  itself. 
The  divide  between  the  two,  the  river  and  its  tributary, 
coming  down  from  the  northwest  makes  a  high  prom- 
ontory. Its  eastern  side  is  the  rocky  ledge  of  the  bluff. 
On  the  west  it  slopes  off  to  the  fertile  draws  of  Fingal's 

15 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

Creek,  and  the  sunset  prairies  that  swell  up  and  away  be- 
yond them. 

Just  where  the  little  stream  joins  the  bigger  one 
Springvale  took  root  and  flourished  amazingly.  It  was 
an  Indian  village  site  and  trading-point  since  tradition 
can  remember.  The  old  tepee  rings  show  still  up  in  the 
prairie  cornfield  where  even  the  plough,  that  great  weapon 
of  civilization  and  obliteration,  has  not  quite  made  a  dead 
level  of  the  landmarks  of  the  past.  I  Ve  bumped  across 
those  rings  many  a  time  in  the  days  when  we  went  from 
Springvale  up  to  the  Red  Range  schoolhouse  in  the  bro- 
ken country  where  Fingal's  Creek  has  its  source.  It  was 
the  hollow  beyond  the  tepee  ring  that  caused  his  pony 
to  stumble  that  night  when  Jean  Pahusca,  the  big  Osage, 
was  riding  like  fury  between  me  and  that  blood-red 
sky. 

The  early  Indians  always  built  on  the  uplands  al- 
though the  valleys  ran  close  beneath  them.  They  had 
only  arrows  and  speed  to  protect  them  from  their  foes.  It 
was  not  until  they  had  the  white  man's  firearms  that 
they  dared  to  make  their  homes  in  the  lowlands.  Black 
Kettle  in  the  sheltered  Washita  Valley  might  never  have 
fallen  before  General  Custer  had  the  Cheyennes  kept 
to  the  high  places  after  the  custom  of  their  fathers.  But 
the  early  white  settlers  had  firearms  and  skill  in  building 
block-houses,  so  they  took  to  the  valleys  near  wood  and 
water. 

On  the  day  that  Kansas  became  a  Territory,  my 
father,  John  Baronet,  with  all  his  household  effects  started 
from  Rockport,  Massachusetts,  to  begin  life  anew  in  the 
wild  unknown  West.  He  was  not  a  poor  man,  heaven 
bless  his  memory!  He  never  knew  want  except  the 
pinch  of  pioneer  life  when  money  is  of  no  avail  because 
the  necessities  are  out  of  reach.  In  the  East  he  had  been 

16 


SPRINGVALE    BY     THE     NEOSHO 

a  successful  lawyer  and  his  success  followed  him.  They 
will  tell  you  in  Springvale  to-day  that  "  if  Judge  Baronet 
were  alive  and  on  the  bench  things  would  go  vastly  bet- 
ter," and  much  more  to  like  effect. 

My  mother  was  young  and  beautiful,  and  to  her  the 
world  was  full  of  beauty.  Especially  did  she  love  the  sea. 
All  her  life  was  spent  beside  it,  and  it  was  ever  her  delight. 
It  must  have  been  from  her  that  my  own  love  of  nature 
came  as  a  heritage  to  me,  giving  me  capacity  to  take 
and  keep  those  prairie  scenes  of  idyllic  beauty  that  fill 
my  memory  now. 

In  the  Summer  of  1853  my  father's  maiden  sister 
Candace  had  come  to  live  with  us.  Candace  Baronet  was 
the  living  refutation  of  all  the  unkind  criticism  ever  heaped 
upon  old  maids.  She  was  a  strong,  comely,  unselfish 
woman  who  lived  where  the  best  thoughts  grow. 

One  day  in  late  October,  a  sudden  squall  drove  land- 
ward, capsizing  the  dory  in  which  my  mother  was  return- 
ing from  a  visit  to  old  friends  on  an  island  off  the  Rock- 
port  coast.  She  was  in  sight  of  home  when  that  furious 
gust  of  wind  and  rain  swept  across  her  path.  The  next 
morning  the  little  waves  rippled  musically  against  the 
beach  whither  they  had  borne  my  dead  mother  and  left 
her  without  one  mark  of  cruel  usage.  Neither  was  there 
any  sign  of  terror  on  her  face,  white  and  peaceful  under 
her  damp  dark  hair. 

I  know  now  that  my  father  and  his  sister  tried  hard  to 
suppress  their  sorrow  for  my  sake,  but  the  curtains  on  the 
seaward  side  of  the  house  were  always  lowered  now  and 
my  father's  face  looked  more  and  more  to  the  westward. 
The  sea  became  an  unbearable  thing  to  him.  Yet  he  was 
a  brave,  unselfish  man  and  in  all  the  years  following  that 
one  Winter  he  lived  cheerfully  and  nobly  —  a  sunshiny 
life. 

2  17 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

In  the  early  Spring  he  gave  up  his  law  practice  in 
Rockport. 

"  The  place  for  me  is  on  the  frontier,"  he  said  to  my 
Aunt  Candace  one  day.  "  I  'm  sick  of  the  sight  of  that 
water.  I  want  to  try  the  prairies  and  I  want  to  be  in 
the  struggle  that  is  beginning  beyond  the  Missouri.  I 
want  to  do  one  man's  part  in  the  making  of  the  West." 

Aunt  Candace  looked  steadily  into  her  brother's  face. 

"  I  am  sick  of  the  sea,  too,  John,"  she  said.  "  Will 
the  prairies  be  kinder  to  us,  I  wonder/' 

I  did  not  know  till  long  afterward,  when  the  Kansas 
blue-grass  had  covered  both  their  graves,  that  the  blue 
Atlantic  had  in  its  keeping  the  form  of  the  one  love  of 
my  aunt's  life.  Rich  am  I,  Philip  Baronet,  to  have  had 
such  a  father  and  such  a  mother-hearted  aunt.  They 
made  life  full  and  happy  for  me  with  never  from  that 
day  any  doleful  grieving  over  the  portion  Providence  had 
given  them.  And  the  blessed  prairie  did  bring  them 
peace.  Its  spell  was  like  a  benediction  on  their  lives 
who  lived  to  bless  many  lives. 

It  was  late  June  when  our  covered  wagon  and  tired 
ox-team  stopped  on  the  east  bluff  above  the  Neosho  just 
outside  of  Springvale.  The  sun  was  dropping  behind 
the  prairie  far  across  the  river  valley  when  an- 
other wagon  and  ox-team  with  pioneers  like  ourselves 
joined  us.  They  were  Irving  Whately  and  his  wife  and 
little  daughter,  Marjory.  I  was  only  seven  and  I  have 
forgotten  many  things  of  these  later  years,  but  I  Jll  never 
forget  Marjie  as  I  first  saw  her.  She  was  stiff  from  long 
sitting  in  the  big  covered  wagon,  and  she  stretched  her 
pudgy  little  legs  to  get  the  cramp  out  of  them,  as  she 
took  in  the  scene.  Her  pink  sun-bonnet  had  fallen  back 
and  she  was  holding  it  by  both  strings  in  one  hand.  Her 
rough  brown  hair  was  all  in  little  blowsy  ringlets  round 

18 


SPRINGVALE    BY    THE    NEOSHO 

her  face  and  the  two  braids  hanging  in  front  of  .her 
shoulders  ended  each  in  a  big  blowsy  curl.  Her  eyes 
were  as  brown  as  her  hair.  But  what  I  noted  then  and 
many  a  time  afterward  was  the  exceeding  whiteness  of 
her  face.  From  St.  Louis  I  had  seen  nothing  but  dark- 
skinned  Mexicans,  tanned  Missourians,  and  Indian,  Cre- 
ole, and  French  Canadian,  all  coppery  or  bronze  brown,  in 
this  land  of  glaring  sunshine.  Marjie  made  me  think  of 
Rockport  and  the  pink-cheeked  children  of  the  country 
lanes  about  the  town.  But  most  of  all  she  called  my 
mother  back,  white  and  beautiful  as  she  looked  in  her 
last  peaceful  sleep,  the  day  the  sea  gave  her  to  us  again. 
"  Star  Face,"  Jean  Pahusca  used  to  call  Marjie,  for  even 
in  the  Kansas  heat  and  browning  winds  she  never  lost  the 
pink  tint  no  miniature  painting  on  ivory  could  exaggerate, 

We  stood  looking  at  one  another  in  the  purple  twilight. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Marjory  Whately.     What's  yours?" 

"  Phil  Baronet,  and  I  'm  seven  years  old."  This,  a 
shade  boastingly. 

"  I  'm  six,"  Marjory  said.  "  Are  you  afraid  of  In- 
dians?" „ 

"  No,"  I  declared.  "  I  won't  let  the  Indians  hurt  you. 
Let 's  run  a  race,"  pointing  toward  where  the  Neosho  lay 
glistening  in  the  last  light  of  day,  a  gap  in  the  bluff  letting 
the  reflection  from  great  golden  clouds  illumine  its  wave- 
crumpled  surface. 

We  took  hold  of  hands  and  started  down  the  long  slope 
together,  but  our  parents  called  us  back.  "  Playmates 
already,"  I  heard  them  saying. 

In  the  gathering  evening  shadows  we  all  lumbered 
down  the  slope  to  the  rock-bottomed  ford  and  up  into  the 
little  hamlet  of  Springvale. 

That  night  when  I  said  my  prayers  to  Aunt  Candace  I 

19 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

cried  softly  on  her  shoulder.  "  Marjie  makes  me  home- 
sick/' I  sobbed,  and  Aunt  Candace  understood  then  and 
always  afterward. 

The  very  air  about  Springvale  was  full  of  tradition. 
The  town  had  been  from  the  earliest  times  a  landmark 
of  the  old  Santa  Fe  trail.  When  the  freighters  and 
plainsmen  left  the  village  and  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
slope  and  set  their  faces  to  the  west  there  lay  before  them 
only  the  wilderness  wastes.  Here  Nature,  grown  miserly, 
offered  not  even  a  stick  of  timber  to  mend  a  broken  cart- 
pole  in  all  the  thousand  miles  between  the  Neosho  and 
the  Spanish  settlement  of  New  Mexico. 

Here  the  Indians  came  with  their  furs  and  beaded  gar- 
ments to  exchange  for  firearms  and  fire-water.  People 
fastened  their  doors  at  night  for  a  purpose.  No  curfew 
bell  was  needed  to  call  in  the  children.  The  wooded  Neo- 
sho Valley  grew  dark  before  the  evening  lights  had  left 
the  prairies  beyond  the  west  bluff,  and  the  waters  that 
sang  all  day  a  song  of  cheer  as  they  rippled  over  the 
rocky  river  bed  seemed  always  after  nightfall  to  gurgle 
murderously  as  they  went  their  way  down  the  black- 
shadowed  valley. 

The  main  street  was  as  broad  as  an  Eastern  boulevard. 
Space  counted  for  nothing  in  planning  towns  in  a  land 
made  up  of  distances.  At  the  end  of  this  street  stood  the 
"  Last  Chance  "  general  store,  the  outpost  of  civilization. 
What  the  freighter  failed  to  get  here  he  would  do  without 
until  he  stood  inside  the  brown  adobe  walls  of  the  old 
city  of  Santa  Fe.  Tell  Mapleson,  the  proprietor  of  the 
"  Last  Chance,"  was  a  tall,  slight,  restless  man,  quick- 
witted, with  somewhat  polished  manners  and  a  gift  of 
persuasion  in  his  speech. 

Near  this  store  was  Conlow's  blacksmith  shop,  where 
the  low-browed,  black-eyed  Conlow  family  have  shod 

20 


SPRINGVALE    BY    THE    NEOSHO 

horses  and  mended  wagons  since  anybody  can  remember. 
They  were  the  kind  of  people  one  instinctively  does  not 
trust,  and  yet  nobody  could  find  a  true  bill  against  them. 
The  shop  had  thick  stone  walls.  High  up  under  the 
eaves  on  the  north  side  a  long  narrow  slit,  where  a  stone 
was  missing,  let  out  a  bar  of  sullen  red  light.  Old  Con- 
low  did  not  know  about  that  chink  for  years,  for  it  was 
only  from  the  bluff  above  the  town  that  the  light  could 
be  seen. 

Our  advent  in  Springvale  was  just  at  the  time  of  its 
transition  from  a  plains  trading-post  to  a  Territorial 
town  with  ambition  for  settlement  and  civilization.  I  can 
see  now  that  John  Baronet  deserved  the  place  he  came 
to  hold  in  that  frontier  community,  for  he  was  a  State- 
builder. 

"  I  should  feel  more  dacent  fur  all  etarnity  jist  to  be 
buried  in  the  same  cimet'ry  wid  Judge  Bar'net,"  O'mie 
once  declared.  "  I  should  walk  into  kingdom-come,  dig- 
nified and  head  up,  saying  to  the  kaper  av  the  pearly 
gates,  kind  o'  careless-like,  '  I  'm  from  that  little  Kansas 
town  av  Springvale  an'  ye  '11  check  up  my  mortial  remains 
over  in  the  cimet'ry,  be  my  neighbor,  Judge  Bar'net,  if  ye 
plaze.' " 

It  was  O'mie's  way  of  saying  what  most  persons  of  the 
community  felt  toward  my  father  from  the  time  he  drove 
into  Springvale  in  the  purple  twilight  of  that  June  even- 
ing in  1854. 

Irving  Whately's  stock  of  merchandise  was  installed 
in  the  big  stone  building  on  the  main  corner  of  the  village, 
where  the  straggling  Indian  trails  from  the  south  and  the 
trail  from  the  new  settlement  out  on  Fingal's  Creek  con- 
verged on  the  broad  Santa  Fe  trail.  Amos  Judson,  a 
young  settler,  became  his  clerk  and  general  helper.  In 
the  front  room  over  this  store  was  John  Baronet's  law 

21 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

office,  and  his  sign  swinging  above  Whately's  seemed  al- 
ways to  link  those  two  names  together. 

Opposite  this  building  was  the  village  tavern.  It  was 
a  wide  two-story  structure,  also  of  stone,  set  well  back 
from  the  street,  with  a  double  veranda  along  the  front 
and  the  north  side.  A  huge  oak  tree  grew  before  it,  and  a 
flagstone  walk  led  up  to  the  veranda  steps.  In  big  black 
lettering  its  inscription  over  the  door  told  the  wayfarer  on 
the  old  trail  that  this  was 

THE  CAMBRIDGE  HOUSE. 
C.  C.  GENTRY,  PROP. 

Cam  Gentry  (his  real  name  was  Cambridge,  christened 
from  the  little  Indiana  town  of  Cambridge  City)  was  a 
good-souled,  easy-going  man,  handicapped  for  life  by  a 
shortness  of  vision  no  spectacle  lens  could  overcome.  It 
might  have  been  disfiguring  to  any  other  man,  but  Cam's 
clear  eye  at  close  range,  and  his  comical  squint  and  tilt 
of  the  head  to  study  out  what  lay  farther  away,  were 
good-natured  and  unique.  He  was  in  Kansas  for  the  fun 
of  it,  while  his  wife,  Dollie,  kept  tavern  from  pure  love 
of  cooking  more  good  things  to  eat  than  opportunity 
afforded  in  a  home.  She  was  a  Martha  whose  kitchen 
was  "  dukedom  large  enough."  Whatever  motive,  fine  or 
coarse,  whatever  love  of  spoils  or  love  of  liberty,  brought 
other  men  hither,  Cam  had  come  to  see  the  joke  —  and  he 
saw  it.  While  as  to  Dollie,  "  Lord  knows,"  she  used  to 
say,  "  there  's  plenty  of  good  cooks  in  old  Wayne  County, 
Indiany;  but  if  they  can  get  anything  to  eat  out  here 
they  need  somebody  to  cook  it  for  'em,  and  cook  it 
right." 

Doing  chores  about  the  tavern  for  his  board  and  keep' 
was  the  little  orphan  boy,  Thomas  O'Meara,  whose  story 

22 


SPRINGVALE    BY    THE    NEOSHO 

I  did  not  know  for  many  years.  We  called  him  O'mie. 
That  was  all.  Marjie  and  O'mie  and  Mary  Gentry,  Cam 
and  Dollie's  only  child,  were  my  first  Kansas  playmates. 
Together  we  waded  barefoot  in  the  shallow  ripples  of  the 
Neosho,  and  little  by  little  we  began  to  explore  that  wide, 
sweet  prairie  land  to  the  west.  There  was  just  one  tree 
standing  up  against  the  horizon ;  far  away  to  us  it  seemed, 
a  huge  cottonwood,  that  kept  sentinel  guard  over  the 
plains  from  the  highest  level  of  the  divide. 

Whately  built  a  home  a  block  or  more  beyond  that  of 
his  young  clerk,  Amos  Judson.  It  was  farther  up  the 
slope  than  any  other  house  in  Springvale  except  my 
father's.  That  was  on  the  very  crest  of  the  west  bluff, 
overlooking  the  Neosho  Valley.  It  fronted  the  east,  and 
across  the  wide  street  before  it  the  bluff  broke  pre- 
cipitously four  hundred  feet  to  the  level  floor  of  the  valley 
below.  Sometimes  the  shelving  rocks  furnished  a  foot- 
ing where  one  could  clamber  down  half  way  and  walk 
along  the  narrow  ledge.  Here  were  cunning  hiding- 
places,  deep  crevices,  and  vine-covered  heaps  of  jagged 
stone  outcrop  invisible  from  the  height  above  or  the  val- 
ley below.  It  was  a  bit  of  rugged,  untamable  cliff  rarely 
found  in  the  plains  country;  and  it  broke  so  suddenly 
from  the  level  promontory  sloping  down  to  the  south  and 
away  to  the  west,  that  a  stranger  sitting  by  our  east  win- 
dows would  never  have  guessed  that  the  seeming  bushes 
peering  up  across  the  street  were  really  the  tops  of  tall 
trees  with  their  roots  in  the  side  of  the  bluff  not  half  way 
to  the  bottom. 

From  our  west  window  the  green  glory  of  the  plains 
spread  out  to  the  baths  of  sunset.  No  wonder  this  Kan- 
sas land  is  life  of  my  life.  The  sea  is  to  me  a  wavering 
treachery,  but  these  firm  prairies  are  the  joy  of  my 
memory. 

23 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

Our  house  was  of  stone  with  every  corner  rounded  like 
a  turret  wall.  It  was  securely  built  against  the  winter 
winds  that  swept  that  bluff  when  the  Kansas  blizzard  un- 
chained its  fury,  for  it  stood  where  it  caught  the  full 
wrath  of  the  elements.  It  caught,  too,  the  splendor  of 
all  the  sunrise  beyond  the  mist-filled  valley,  and  the  full 
moon  in  the  level  east  above  the  oak  treetops  made  a 
dream  of  chastened  glory  like  the  silver  twilight  gleams 
in  Paradise. 

"  I  want  to  watch  the  world  coming  and  going,"  my 
father  said  when  his  house  was  finished ;  "  and  it  is  coming 
down  that  Santa  Fe  trail.  It  is  State-making  that  is  be- 
gun here.  The  East  doesn't  understand  it  yet,  outside 
of  New  England.  And  these  Missourians,  Lord  pity 
them!  they  think  they  can  kill  human  freedom  with  a 
bullet,  like  thrusting  daggers  into  the  body  of  Julius 
Caesar  to  destroy  the  Roman  Empire.  What  do  they 
know  of  the  old  Puritan  blood,  and  the  strength  of  the 
grip  of  a  Massachusetts  man?  Heaven  knows  where 
they  came  from,  these  Missouri  ruffians;  but,"  he  added, 
"  the  devil  has  it  arranged  where  they  will  go  to." 

"  Oh,  John,  be  careful,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Candace. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  them,  Candace?" 

"  Well,  no,  I  don't  believe  I  am,"  replied  my  aunt. 

She  was  not  one  of  those  blustering  north-northwest 
women.  She  squared  her  life  by  the  admonition  of  Isaiah, 
"  In  quietness  and  in  confidence  shall  be  your  strength." 
But  she  was  a  Baronet,  and  although  they  have  their 
short-comings,  fear  seems  to  have  been  left  out  of  their 
make-up. 


24 


CHAPTER    II 
JEAN    PAHUSCA 

In  even  savage  bosoms 

There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings 

For  the  good  they  comprehend  not. 

—  LONGFELLOW. 


frontier  broke  all  lines  of  caste.  There  was  no 
JL  aristocrat,  autocrat,  nor  plutocrat  in  Springvale; 
but  the  purest  democracy  was  among  the  children.  Life 
was  before  us;  we  loved  companionship,  and  the  same 
dangers  threatened  us  all.  The  first  time  I  saw  Marjie 
she  asked,  "  Are  you  afraid  of  Indians  ?  "  They  were 
the  terror  of  her  life.  Even  to-day  the  mere  press  de- 
spatch of  an  Indian  uprising  in  Oklahoma  or  Arizona  will 
set  the  blood  bounding  through  my  veins  and  my  first 
thought  is  of  her. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  day  my  self-appointed  guardian- 
ship of  her  began.  Before  we  had  a  schoolhouse,  Aunt 
Candace  taught  the  children  of  the  community  in  our  big 
living-room.  One  rainy  afternoon,  late  in  the  Fall,  the 
darkness  seemed  to  drop  down  suddenly.  We  could  not 
see  to  study,  and  we  were  playing  boisterously  about  the 
benches  of  our  improvised  schoolroom,  Marjie,  Mary 
Gentry,  Lettie  and  Jim  Conlow,  Tell  Mapleson,  —  old 
Tell's  boy,  —  O'mie,  both  the  Mead  boys,  and  the  four 
Anderson  children.  Suddenly  Marjie,  who  was  watching 
the  rain  beating  against  the  west  window,  called,  "  Phil, 

25 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

come  here!     What  is  that  long,  narrow,  red  light  down 
by  the  creek?" 

Marjie  had  the  softest  voice.  Amid  the  harsh  jangle 
of  the  Andersons  and  Bill  Mead's  big  whooping  shouts 
it  always  seemed  like  music  to  me.  I  stared  hard  at  the 
sullen  block  of  flame  in  the  evening  shadows. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  I  said. 

She  slipped  her  fingers  into  the  pocket  of  my  coat  as  I 
turned  away,  and  her  eyes  looked  anxiously  into  mine. 
"  Could  it  be  an  Indian  camp-fire?  "  she  queried. 

I  looked  again,  flattening  my  nose  against  the  win- 
dow pane.  "  I  don't  know,  Marjie,  but  I  '11  find  out. 
Maybe  it 's  somebody's  kitchen  fire  down  west.  I  Jll  ask 
O'mie." 

In  truth,  that  light  had  often  troubled  me.  It  did  not 
look  like  the  twinkling  candle-flare  I  could  see  in  so  many 
windows  of  the  village.  I  turned  to  O'mie,  who,  with  his 
face  to  the  wall,  waited  in  a  game  of  hide-and-seek.  Be- 
fore I  could  call  him  Marjie  gave  a  low  cry  of  terror.  We 
all  turned  to  her  in  an  instant,  and  I  saw  outside  a  dark 
face  close  against  the  window.  It  was  gone  so  quickly 
that  only  O'mie  and  I  caught  sight  of  it. 

"What  was  it,  Marjie?"  the  children  cried. 

"  An  Indian  boy,"  gasped  Marjie.  "  He  was  right 
against  the  window." 

"  I  '11  bet  it  was  a  spook,"  shouted  Bill  Mead. 

"  I  '11  bet  it  was  n't  nothin'  at  all,"  grinned  Jim  Con- 
low.  "  Possum  Conlow  "  we  called  him  for  that  secretive 
grin  on  his  shallow  face. 

"  I  '11  bet  it  wath  a  whole  gang  of  Thiennes,"  lisped 
tow-headed  Bud  Anderson. 

"  They  ain't  no  Injuns  nearer  than  the  reserve  down 
the  river,  and  ain't  been  no  Injuns  in  Springvale  for  a 
long  time,  'cept  annuity  days,"  declared  Tell  Mapleson. 

26 


JEAN     PAHUSCA 

"  Well,  let 's  foind  out,"  shouted  O'mie,  "  I  ain't  afraid 
av  no  Injun." 

"  Neither  am  I,"  I  cried,  starting  after  O'mie,  who  was 
out  of  the  door  at  the  word. 

But  Marjie  caught  my  arm,  and  held  it. 

"  Let  O'mie  go.     Don't  go,  Phil,  please  don't." 

I  can  see  her  yet,  her  brown  eyes  full  of  pleading,  her 
soft  brown  hair  in  rippling  waves  about  her  white  tem- 
ples. Did  my  love  for  her  spring  into  being  at  that  in- 
stant? I  cannot  tell.  But  I  do  know  that  it  was  a  crucial 
moment  for  me.  Sixty  years  have  I  seen,  and  my  life 
has  grown  practical  and  barren  of  sentiment.  But  I  know 
that  the  boy,  Phil  Baronet,  who  stood  that  evening  with 
Marjie  and  the  firelight  and  safety  on  one  side,  and  dark- 
ness and  uncertainty  on  the  other,  had  come  to  one  of 
those  turning-points  in  a  life,  unrecognized  for  the  time, 
whose  decision  controls  all  the  years  that  follow.  For 
suddenly  came  the  query  "  How  can  I  best  take  care  of 
her?  Shall  I  stay  with  her  in  the  light,  or  go  into  the 
dark  and  strike  the  danger  out  of  it?  "  I  did  n't  frame  all 
this  into  words.  It  was  all  only  an  intense  feeling,  but 
the  mental  judgment  was  very  real.  I  turned  from  her 
and  cleared  the  doorstep  at  a  leap,  and  in  a  moment  was 
by  O'mie's  side,  chasing  down  the  hill-slope  toward  town. 

We  never  thought  to  run  to  the  bluff's  edge  and 
clamber  down  the  shelving,  precipitous  sides.  Here  was 
the  only  natural  hiding-place,  but  like  children  we  all 
ran  the  other  way.  When  we  had  come  in  again  with 
the  report  of  "  No  enemy  in  sight,"  and  had  shut  the  door 
against  the  rain,  I  happened  to  glance  out  of  the  east  win- 
dow. Climbing  up  to  the  street  from  the  cliff  I  saw  the 
lithe  form  of  a  young  Indian.  He  came  straight  to  the 
house  and  stood  by  the  east  window  where  he  could  see 
inside.  Then  with  quick,  springing  step  he  walked  down 

27 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

tHe  slope.  I  crossed  to  the  west  window  and  watched 
him  shutting  out  that  red  bar  of  light  now  and  then,  till 
he  melted  into  the  shadows. 

Meanwhile  the  children  were  chattering  like  sparrows 
and  had  not  noticed  me. 

"  Would  you  know  it,  Marjie,  if  you  thaw  it  again?  " 
lisped  Bud  Anderson. 

"  Oh,  yes !  His  hair  was  straight  across  like  this." 
Marjie  drew  one  hand  across  her  curl-shaded  forehead,  to 
show  how  square  the  black  hair  grew  about  the  face  she 
had  seen. 

"That's  nothin',"  said  Bill  Mead.  "They  change 
scalps  every  time  they  catch  a  white  man, —  just  take 
their  own  off  an'  put  his  on,  an'  it  grows.  There's  lots 
of  men  in  Kansas  look  like  white  men 's  just  Injuns 
growed  a  white  scalp  on  'em." 

"  Really,  is  there  ?  "  asked  Mary  Gentry  credulously. 

"  Sure,  I  've  seen  'em,"  went  on  Bill  with  a  boy's  love  of 
that  kind  of  lying. 

"Wouldn't  a  Injun  look  funny  with  my  thcalp?"  Bud 
Anderson  put  in.  "  I  '11  bet  I  'm  jutht  a  Injun  mythelf." 

"  Then  you  've  got  some  little  baby  girl's  scalp,"  grinned 
Jim  Conlow. 

"  'Tain't  no  'pothum'th,  anyhow,"  rejoined  Bud ;  and  we 
laughed  our  fears  away. 

That  evening  Aunt  Candace  sent  me  home  with  Marjie 
to  take  some  fresh  doughnuts  to  Mrs.  Whately.  I  can 
see  the  little  girl  now  as  we  splashed  sturdily  down  Cliff 
Street  through  the  wet  gloom,  her  face  like  a  white 
blossom  in  the  shadowy  twilight,  her  crimson  jacket  open 
at  the  throat,  and  the  soft  little  worsted  scarf  about  her 
damp  fluffy  curls  making  a  glow  of  rich  coloring  in  the 
dim  light. 

"  You  '11  never  let  the  Indians  get  you,  will  you,  Phil?  " 

28 


JEAN    PAHUSCA 

she  asked,  when  we  stood  a  moment  by  the  bushes  just 
at  the  steepest  bend  of  the  street. 

I  stood  up  proudly.  I  was  growing  very  fast  in  this 
gracious  climate.  "  The  finest-built  boy  in  Springvale," 
the  men  called  me.  "  No,  Marjie.  The  Indians  won't 
get  me,  nor  anybody  else  I  don't  want  them  to  have." 

She  drew  close  to  me,  and  I  caught  her  hand  in  mine  a 
moment.  Then,  boylike,  I  flipped  her  heavy  braid  of  hair 
over  her  shoulder  and  shook  the  wettest  bushes  till  their 
drops  scattered  in  a  shower  about  her.  Something,  a 
dog  we  thought,  suddenly  slid  out  from  the  bush  and 
down  the  cliff-side.  When  I  started  home  after  deliver- 
ing the  cakes,  Marjie  held  the  candle  at  the  door  to  light 
my  way.  As  I  turned  at  the  edge  of  the  candle's  rays  to 
wave  my  hand,  I  saw  her  framed  in  the  doorway.  Would 
that  some  artist  could  paint  that  picture  for  me  now! 

"  I  '11  whistle  up  by  the  bushes,"  I  cried,  and  strode  into 
the  dark. 

On  the  bend  of  the  crest,  where  the  street  drops  down 
almost  too  steep  for  a  team  of  horses  to  climb,  I  turned 
and  saw  Marjie's  light  in  the  window,  and  the  shadow 
of  her  head  on  the  pane.  I  gave  a  long,  low  whistle,  the 
signal  call  we  had  for  our  own.  It  was  not  an  echo,  it 
was  too  near  and  clear,  the  very  same  low  call  in  the 
bushes  just  over  the  cliff  beside  me  as  though  some  imi- 
tator were  trying  to  catch  the  notes.  A  few  feet  farther 
on  my  path  I  came  face  to  face  with  the  same  Indian 
whom  I  had  seen  an  hour  before.  He  strode  by  me  in 
silence. 

Without  once  looking  back  I  said  to  myself,  "  If  you 
are  n't  afraid  of  me,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  you.  But  who  gave 
that  whistle,  I  wonder.  That 's  my  call  to  Marjie." 

"  Marjie  's  awful  'fraid  of  Injuns,"  I  said  to  Aunt  Can- 
dace  that  night.  "  Did  n't  want  me  to  find  who  it  was 

29 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

peeked,  but  I  went  after  him,  clear  down  to  Amos  Jud- 
son's  house,  because  I  thought  that  was  the  best  way, 
if  it  was  an  Injun.  She  is  n't  afraid  of  anything  else. 
She  's  the  only  girl  that  can  ride  Tell  Mapleson's  pony, 
and  only  O'mie  and  Tell  and  I  among  the  boys  can  ride 
him.  And  she  killed  the  big  rattlesnake  that  nearly  had 
Jim  Conlow,  killed  it  with  a  hoe.  And  she  can  climb 
where  no  other  girl  dares  to,  on  the  bluff  below  town  to- 
ward the  Hermit's  Cave.  But  she  's  just  as  'fraid  of  an 
Injun!  I  went  to  hunt  him,  though." 

"  And  you  did  just  right,  Phil.  The  only  way  to  be 
safe  is  to  go  after  what  makes  you  afraid.  I  guess, 
though,  there  really  was  nobody.  It  was  just  Marjie's 
imagination,  was  n't  it?  " 

"  Yes,  there  was,  Auntie ;  I  saw  him  climb  up  from  the 
cliff  over  there  and  go  off  down  the  hill  after  we  came  in." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  say  so  ?  "  asked  my  aunt. 

"  We  could  n't  get  him,  and  it  would  have  scared  Mar- 
jie,"  I  answered. 

"  That 's  right,  Phil.  You  are  a  regular  Kansas  boy, 
you  are.  The  best  of  them  may  claim  to  come  from 
Massachusetts,"  —  with  a  touch  of  pride,  —  "  but  no  mat- 
ter where  they  come  from,  they  must  learn  how  to  be 
quick-witted  and  brave  and  manly  here  in  Kansas.  It 's 
what  all  boys  need  to  be  here." 

A  few  days  later  the  door  of  our  schoolroom  opened 
and  an  Indian  boy  strode  in  and  seated  himself  on  the 
bench  beside  Tell  Mapleson.  He  was  a  lad  of  fifteen,  pos- 
sibly older.  His  dress  was  of  the  Osage  fashion  and 
round  his  neck  he  wore  a  string  of  elk  teeth.  His  face 
was  thoroughly  Indian,  yet  upon  his  features  something 
else  was  written.  His  long  black  hair  was  a  shade  too 
jetty  and  soft  for  an  Indian's,  and  it  grew  squarely  across 
his  forehead,  suggesting  the  face  of  a  French  priest.  We 

30 


JEAN    PAHUSCA 

children  sat  open-mouthed.  Even  Aunt  Candace  forgot 
herself  a  moment.  Bud  Anderson  first  found  his  voice. 

"  Well,  I  '11  thwan !  "  he  exclaimed  in  sheer  amazement. 

Bill  Mead  giggled  and  that  broke  the  spell. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  my  aunt  kindly. 

"  How,"  replied  the  young  brave. 

"What  is  your  name,  and  what  do  you  want?"  asked 
our  teacher. 

"Jean  Pahusca.  Want  school.  Want  book-—"  He 
broke  off  and  finished  in  a  jargon  of  French  and  Indian. 

"Where  is  your  home,  your  tepee?"  queried  Aunt 
Candace. 

The  Indian  only  shook  his  head.  Then  taking  from 
his  beads  a  heavy  silver  cross,  crudely  shaped  and 
wrought,  he  rose  and  placed  it  on  the  table.  Taking  up 
a  book  at  the  same  time  he  seated  himself  to  study  like 
the  rest  of  us. 

"  He  has  paid  his  tuition,"  said  my  aunt,  smiling. 
"  We  '11  let  him  stay." 

So  Jean  Pahusca  was  established  in  our  school. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  HERMIT'S  CAVE 

The  secret  which  the  mountains  kept 
The  river  never  told. 

THE  bluff  was  our  continual  delight.  It  was  so  dif- 
ficult, so  full  of  surprises,  so  enchanting  in  its  dan- 
gers. All  manner  of  creeping  things  in  general,  and 
centipedes  and  rattlesnakes  in  particular,  made  their  homes 
in  its  crevices.  Its  footing  was  perilous  to  the  climber, 
and  its  hiding-places  had  held  outlaws  and  worse.  Then 
it  had  its  haunted  spots,  where  tradition  told  of  cruel  trag- 
edies in  days  long  gone  by;  and  of  the  unknown  who  had 
found  here  secret  retreat,  who  came  and  went,  leaving 
never  a  name  to  tell  whom  they  were  nor  what  their  story 
might  be.  All  these  the  old  cliff  had  in  its  keeping  for 
the  sturdy  boys  and  girls  of  parents  who  had  come  here 
to  conquer  the  West. 

Just  below  the  town  where  the  Neosho  swings  away  to 
the  right,  the  bottom  lands  narrow  down  until  the  stream 
sweeps  deep  and  swift  against  a  stone  wall  almost  two 
hundred  feet  in  height.  From  the  top  of  the  cliff  here 
the  wall  drops  down  nearly  another  hundred  feet,  leaving 
an  inaccessible  heap  of  rough  cavernous  rocks  in  the 
middle  stratum. 

Had  the  river  been  less  deep  and  dangerous  we  could 
not  have  gotten  up  from  below ;  while  to  come  down  from 
above  might  mean  a  fall  of  three  hundred  feet  or  more  to 

32 


THE     HERMIT'S     CAVE 

the  foam-torn  waters  and  the  jagged  rocks  beneath  them. 
Here  a  stranger  hermit  had  hidden  himself  years  before. 
Nobody  knew  his  story,  nor  how  he  had  found  his  way 
hither,  for  he  spoke  in  a  strange  tongue  that  nobody  could 
interpret.  That  this  inaccessible  place  was  his  home 
was  certain.  Boys  bathing  in  the  shallows  up-stream 
sometimes  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  moving  about  among 
the  bushes.  And  sometimes  at  night  from  far  to  the  east 
a  light  could  be  seen  twinkling  half  way  up  the  dark  cliff- 
side.  Every  boy  in  Springvale  had  an  ambition  to  climb 
to  the  Hermit's  Cave  and  explore  its  mysteries;  for  the 
old  man  died  as  he  had  lived,  unknown.  One  winter  day 
his  body  was  found  on  the  sand  bar  below  the  rapids 
where  the  waters  had  carried  him  after  his  fall  from  the 
point  of  rock  above  the  deep  pool.  There  was  no  mark 
on  his  coarse  clothing  to  tell  a  word  of  his  story,  and  the 
Neosho  kept  his  secret  always. 

What  boy  after  that  would  not  have  braved  any  danger 
to  explore  the  depths  of  this  hiding-place?  But  we  could 
not  do  it.  Try  as  we  might,  the  hidden  path  leading 
up,  or  down,  baffled  us. 

After  Jean  Pahusca  came  into  our  school  we  had  a  new 
interest  and  for  a  time  we  forgot  that  tantalizing  river 
wall  below  town.  Jean  was  irregular  in  his  attendance 
and  his  temper.  He  learned  quickly,  for  an  Indian. 
Sometimes  he  was  morose  and  silent;  sometimes  he  was 
affable  and  kind,  chatting  among  us  like  one  of  our  own; 
and  sometimes  he  found  the  white  man's  fire-water. 
Then  he  murdered  as  he  went.  He  was  possessed  of  a 
demon  to  kill,  kill  the  moment  he  became  drunk.  Every 
living  thing  in  his  way  had  to  flee  or  perish  then.  He 
would  stop  in  his  mad  chase  to  crush  the  life  out  of  a 
sleeping  cat,  or  to  strike  at  a  bird  or  a  chicken.  Whiskey 
to  him  meant  death,  as  we  learned  to  our  sorrow.  No- 
3  33 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

body  knew  where  he  lived.  He  dressed  like  an  Osage  but 
he  was  supposed  to  make  his  home  with  the  Kaws,  whose 
reservation  was  much  nearer  to  us.  Sometimes  in  the 
cool  weather  he  slept  in  our  sheds.  In  warm  weather  he 
lay  down  on  the  ground  wherever  he  chose  to  sleep. 
There  was  a  fascination  about  him  unlike  all  the  other 
Indians  who  came  up  to  the  village,  many  of  whom  we 
knew.  He  could  be  so  gentle  and  winning  in  his  man- 
ner at  times,  one  forgot  he  was  an  Indian.  But  the  spirit 
of  the  Red  Man  was  ever  present  to  overcome  the  strange 
European  mood  in  a  moment. 

"  He  's  no  Osage,  that  critter  ain't,"  Cam  Gentry  said 
to  a  group  on  his  tavern  veranda  one  annuity  day  when 
the  tribes  had  come  to  town  for  their  quarterly  allow- 
ances. "  He  's  second  cousin  on  his  father's  side  to  some 
French  missionary,  you  bet  your  life.  He 's  got  a  gait 
like  a  Jessut  priest.  An*  he  's  not  Osage  on  't  other  side, 
neither.  I  '11  bet  his  mother  was  a  Kiowa,  an*  that  means 
his  maternal  grandad  was  a  rattlesnake,  even  if  his  pater- 
nal grandpop  was  a  French  markis  turned  religious  an* 
gone  a-missionaryin'  among  the  red  heathen.  You  dig 
fur  enough  into  that  buck's  hide  an'  you  '11  find  cussed- 
ness  big  as  a  sheep,  I  'm  tellin'  you." 

"  Where  does  he  live?  "  inquired  my  father. 

"  Lord  knows ! "  responded  Cam.  "  Down  to  the 
Kaws'  nests,  I  reckon." 

"  He  was  cuttin'  east  along  the  Fingal  Creek  bluff  after 
he  'd  made  off  to  the  southwest,  the  other  night,  when  I 
was  after  the  cows,"  broke  in  O'mie,  who  was  sitting  on 
the  lowest  step  listening  with  all  his  ears.  "  Was  cuttin' 
straight  to  the  river.  Only  that 's  right  by  the  Hermit's 
Cave  an'  he  could  n't  cross  to  the  Osages  there." 

"  Reckon  he  zigzagged  back  to  town  to  get  somethin' 
he  forgot  at  Conlow's  shop,"  put  in  Cam.  "  Did  n't  find 

34 


THE     HERMIT'S     CAVE 

any  dead  dogs  nor  children  next  mornin',  did  ye, 
O'mie?" 

Conlow  kept  the  vilest  whiskey  ever  sold  to  a  poor 
drink-thirsty  Redskin.  Everybody  knew  it  except  those 
whom  the  grand  jury  called  into  counsel.  I  saw  my 
father's  brow  darken. 

"  Conlow  will  meet  his  match  one  of  these  days,"  he 
muttered. 

"  That 's  why  we  are  runnin*  you  for  judge,"  said  Cam. 
"  This  cussed  country  needs  you  in  every  office  it 's  got 
to  clean  out  that  gang  that  robs  an*  cheats  the  Injuns, 
an*  then  makes  'em  ravin'  crazy  with  drinkin'.  They  's 
more  'n  Conlow  to  blame,  though,  Judge.  Keep  one  eye 
on  the  Government  agents  and  Indian  traders." 

"  I  wonder  where  Jean  did  go  anyhow,"  O'mie  whis- 
pered to  me.  "  Let 's  foind  out  an'  give  him  a  surprise 
party  an'  a  church  donation  some  night." 

"  What  does  he  come  here  so  much  for,  anyhow?  "  I 
questioned. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  O'mie.  "Why  can't  he  stay 
Injun?  What '11  he  do  wid  the  greatest  common  divisor 
an*  the  indicative  mood  an'  the  Sea  of  Azov,  an'  the 
Zambezi  River,  when  he  's  learned  'em,  anyhow?  Phil, 
begorra,  I  b'lave  that  cussed  Redskin  is  in  this  town  fur 
trouble,  an*  you  jist  remember  he  '11  git  it  one  av  these 
toimes.  He  ain't  natural  Injun.  Uncle  Cam  is  right. 
He  's  not  like  them  Osages  that  comes  here  annuity  days. 
All  that 's  Osage  about  him  is  his  clothes." 

While  we  were  talking,  Jean  Pahusca  came  silently  into 
the  company  and  sat  down  under  the  oak  tree  shading  the 
walk.  He  never  looked  less  like  an  Indian  than  he  did 
that  summer  morning  lounging  lazily  in  the  shade.  The 
impenetrable  savage  face  had  now  an  expression  of  ease 
and  superior  self-possession,  making  it  handsome.  Un- 

35 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

like  the  others  of  his  race  who  came  and  went  about 
Springvale,  Jean's  trappings  were  always  bright  and 
fresh,  and  his  every  muscle  had  the  poetry  of  motion.  In 
all  our  games  he  was  an  easy  victor.  He  never  clambered 
about  the  cliff  as  we  did,  he  simply  slid  up  and  down  like 
a  lizard.  Jim  Conlow  was  built  to  race,  but  Jean  skimmed 
the  ground  like  a  bird.  He  could  outwrestle  every  boy 
except  O'mie  (nobody  had  ever  held  that  Irishman  if  he 
wanted  to  get  away),  and  his  grip  was  like  steel.  We  all 
fought  him  by  turns  and  he  defeated  everyone  until  my 
turn  came.  From  me  he  would  take  no  chance  of  defeat, 
however  much  the  boys  taunted  him  with  being  afraid  of 
Phil  Baronet.  For  while  he  had  a  quickness  that  I  lacked, 
I  knew  I  had  a  muscular  strength  he  could  not  break.  I 
disliked  him  at  first  on  Marjie's  account;  and  when  she 
grew  accustomed  to  his  presence  and  almost  forgot  her 
fear,  I  detested  him.  And  never  did  I  dislike  him  so  much 
before  as  on  this  summer  morning  when  we  sat  about  the 
shady  veranda  of  the  Cambridge  House.  Nobody  else, 
however,  gave  any  heed  to  the  Indian  boy  picturesquely 
idling  there  on  the  blue-grass. 

Down  the  street  came  Lettie  Conlow  and  Mary  Gentry 
with  Marjory  Whately,  all  chatting  together.  They 
turned  at  the  tavern  oak  and  came  up  the  flag-stone  walk 
toward  the  veranda.  I  could  not  tell  you  to-day  what  my 
lady  wears  in  the  social  functions  where  I  sometimes  have 
the  honor  to  be  a  guest.  I  am  a  man,  and  silks  and  laces 
confuse  me.  Yet  I  remember  three  young  girls  in  a 
frontier  town  more  than  forty  years  ago.  Mary  Gentry 
was  slender  —  "  skinny,"  we  called  her  to  tease  her.  Her 
dark-blue  calico  dress  was  clean  and  prim.  Lettie  Con- 
low  was  fat.  Her  skin  was  thick  and  muddy,  and  there 
was  a  brown  mole  below  her  ear.  Her  black,  slick  braids 
of  hair  were  my  especial  dislike.  She  had  no  neck  to 

36 


THE     HERMIT'S     CAVE 

speak  of,  and  when  she  turned  her  head  the  creases  above 
her  fat  shoulders  deepened.  I  might  have  liked  Lettie 
but  for  her  open  preference  for  me.  Everybody  knew  this 
preference,  and  she  annoyed  me  exceedingly.  This  morn- 
ing she  wore  a  thin  old  red  lawn  cut  down  from  her 
mother's  gown.  A  ruffle  of  the  same  lawn  flopped  about 
her  neck.  As  they  came  near,  her  black  eyes  sought  mine 
as  usual,  but  I  saw  only  the  floppy  red  ruffle  —  and  Mar- 
jie.  Marjie  looked  sweet  and  cool  in  a  fresh  starched 
gingham,  with  her  round  white  arms  bare  to  the  elbows, 
and  her  white  shapely  neck,  with  its  dainty  curves  and 
dimples.  The  effect  was  heightened  by  the  square-cut 
bodice,  with  its  green  and  white  gingham  bands  edged 
with  a  Hamburg  something,  narrow  and  spotless.  How 
unlike  she  was  to  Lettie  in  her  flimsy  trimmings!  Mar- 
jie's  hair  was  coiled  in  a  knot  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and 
the  little  ringlets  curved  about  her  forehead  and  at  the 
back  of  her  neck.  Somehow,  with  her  clear  pink  cheeks 
and  that  pale  green  gown,  I  could  think  only  of  the  wild 
roses  that  grew  about  the  rocks  on  the  bluff  this  side  of 
the  Hermit's  Cave. 

Marjie  smiled  kindly  down  at  Jean  as  she  passed  him. 
There  was  always  a  tremor  of  fear  in  that  smile;  and  he 
knew  it  and  gloried  in  it. 

"  Good-morning,  Jean,"  she  said  in  that  soft  voice  I 
loved  to  hear. 

"  Good-morning,  Star-face,'*  Jean  smiled  back  at  her ; 
and  his  own  face  was  transfigured  for  the  instant,  as  his 
still  black  eyes  followed  her.  The  blood  in  my  veins 
turned  to  fire  at  that  look.  Our  eyes  met  and  for  one  long 
moment  we  gazed  steadily  at  each  other.  As  I  turned 
away  I  saw  Lettie  Conlow  watching  us  both,  and  I  knew 
instinctively  that  she  and  Jean  Pahusca  would  sometime 
join  forces  against  me. 

37 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"Well,  if  you  lassies  ain't  a  sight  good  for  sore  eyes, 
I  '11  never  tell  it,"  Cam  shouted  heartily,  squinting  up  at 
the  girls  with  his  good-natured  glance.  "  You  're  cool  as 
October  an*  twicet  as  sweet  an*  fine.  Go  in  and  let  Dollie 
give  you  some  hot  berry  pie." 

"  To  cool  'em  off,"  O'mie  whispered  in  my  ear.  "  Noth- 
in'  so  coolin'  as  a  hot  berry  pie  in  July.  Let 's  you  and  me 
go  to  the  creek  an'  thaw  out." 

That  evening  Jean  Pahusca  found  the  jug  supposed  to 
be  locked  in  Conlow's  chest  of  tools  inside  his  shop.  I 
had  found  where  that  red  forge  light  came  from,  and  had 
watched  it  from  my  window  many  a  night.  When  it 
winked  and  blinked,  I  knew  somebody  inside  the  shop 
was  passing  between  it  and  the  line  of  the  chink.  I  did 
not  speak  of  it.  I  was  never  accused  of  telling  all  I  knew. 
My  father  often  said  I  would  make  a  good  witness  for  my 
attorney  in  a  suit  at  law. 

Among  the  Indians  who  had  come  for  their  stipend  on 
this  annuity  day  was  a  strong  young  Osage  called  Hard 
Rope,  who  always  had  a  roll  of  money  when  he  went  out 
of  town.  I  remember  that  night  my  father  did  not  come 
home  until  very  late;  and  when  Aunt  Candace  asked  him 
if  there  was  anything  the  matter,  I  heard  him  answer 
carelessly : 

"  Oh,  no.  I  Ve  been  looking  after  a  young  Osage  they 
call  Hard  Rope,  who  needed  me." 

I  was  sleepy,  and  forgot  all  about  his  words  then. 
Long  afterwards  I  had  good  reason  for  knowing  through 
this  same  Hard  Rope,  how  well  an  Indian  can  remember 
a  kindness.  He  never  came  to  Springvale  again.  And 
when  I  next  saw  him  I  had  forgotten  that  I  had  ever 
known  him  before.  However,  I  had  seen  the  blinking  red 
glare  down  the  slope  that  evening  and  I  knew  something 
was  going  on.  Anyhow,  Jean  Pahusca,  crazed  with 

38 


THE    HERMIT'S    CAVE 

drink,  had  stolen  Tell  Mapleson's  pony  and  created  a 
reign  of  terror  in  the  street  until  he  disappeared  down  the 
trail  to  the  southwest. 

"  It 's  a  wonder  old  Tell  does  n't  shoot  that  Injun,"  Irv- 
ing Whately  remarked  to  a  group  in  his  store.  "  He  's 
quick  enough  with  firearms." 

"  Well,"  said  Cam  Gentry,  squinting  across  the  counter 
with  his  shortsighted  eyes,  "  there  's  somethin'  about  that 
'  Last  Chance '  store  and  about  this  town  I  don't  under- 
stand. There  's  a  nigger  in  the  wood-pile,  or  an  Injun  in 
the  blankets,  somewhere.  I  hope  it  won't  be  long  till  this 
thing  is  cleared  up  and  we  can  know  whether  we  do  know 
anything,  or  don't  know  it.  I  'm  gettin'  mystifieder 
daily."  And  Cam  sat  down  chuckling. 

"  Anyhow,  we  won't  see  that  Redskin  here  for  a  spell,  I 
reckon,"  broke  in  Amos  Judson,  Whately's  clerk.  And 
with  this  grain  of  comfort,  we  forgot  him  for  a  time. 

One  lazy  Saturday  afternoon  in  early  August,  O'mie 
and  I  went  for  a  swim  on  the  sand-bar  side  of  the  Deep 
Hole  under  the  Hermit's  Cave.  I  had  something  to  tell 
O'mie.  All  the  boys  trusted  him  with  their  confidences. 
We  had  slid  quietly  down  the  river;  somehow,  it  was  too 
hot  to  be  noisy,  and  we  were  lying  on  a  broad,  flat  stone 
letting  the  warm  water  ripple  over  us.  A  huge  bowlder 
on  the  sand  just  beyond  us  threw  a  sort  of  shadow  over 
our  brown  faces  as  we  rested  our  heads  on  the  sand. 

"  O'mie,"  I  began,  "  I  saw  something  last  night." 

"Well,  an*  phwat  did  somethin'  do  to  you?"  He  was 
blowing  at  the  water,  which  was  sliding  gently  over  his 
chest. 

"  That 's  what  I  want  to  tell  you  if  you  will  shut  up  that 
red  flannel  mouth  a  minute." 

"  The  crimson  fabric  is  now  closed  be  order  av  the 
Coort,"  grinned  O'mie. 

39 


THE     PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

"  O'mie,  I  waked  up  suddenly  last  night.  It  was  clear 
moon-light,  and  I  looked  out  of  the  window.  There  right 
under  it,  on  a  black  pony  just  like  Tell  Mapleson's,  was 
Jean  Pahusca.  He  was  staring  up  at  the  window.  He 
must  have  seen  me  move  for  he  only  stayed  a  minute  and 
then  away  he  went.  I  watched  him  till  he  had  passed 
Judson's  place  and  was  in  the  shadows  beyond  the  church. 
He  had  on  a  new  red  blanket  with  a  circle  of  white  right 
in  the  middle,  a  good  target  for  an  arrow,  only  I  'd  never 
sneak  up  behind  him.  If  I  fight  him  I  '11  do  it  like  a  white 
man,  from  the  front." 

"  Then  ye  '11  be  dead  like  a  white  man,  from  the  front 
clear  back,"  declared  O'mie.  "But  hadn't  ye  heard? 
This  mornin'  ould  Tell  was  showin'  Tell's  own  pony  he 
said  he  brought  back  from  down  at  Westport.  He  got 
home  late  las'  night.  An*  Tell,  he  pipes  up  an*  says, 
'  There  was  a  arrow  fastened  in  its  mane  when  I  see  it 
this  mornin',  but  his  dad  took  no  notice  whatsoever  av  the 
boy's  sayin';  just  went  on  that  it  was  the  one  Jean  Pa- 
husca had  stole  when  he  was  drunk  last.  What  does  it 
mean,  Phil?  Is  Jean  hidin'  out  round  here  again?  I  wish 
the  cuss  would  go  to  Santy  Fee  with  the  next  train  down 
the  trail  an'  go  to  Spanish  bull  fightin'.  He's  just  cut 
out  for  that,  begorra ;  fur  he  rides  like  a  Comanche.  It  ud 
be  a  sort  av  disgrace  to  the  bull  though.  I  've  got  nothin' 
agin  bulls." 

"  O'mie,  I  don't  understand ;  but  let 's  keep  still.  Some 
day  when  he  gets  so  drunk  he  '11  kill  one  of  the  grand 
jury,  maybe  the  rest  of  them  and  the  coroner  can  indict 
him  for  something." 

We  lay  still  in  the  warm  water.  Sometimes  now  in  the 
lazy  hot  August  afternoons  I  can  hear  the  rippling  song 
of  the  Neosho  as  it  prattled  and  gurgled  on  its  way.  Sud- 

40 


THE     HERMIT'S     CAVE 

denly  O'mie  gave  a  start  and  in  a  voice  low  and  even  but 
intense  he  exclaimed: 

"  For  the  Lord's  sake,  wud  ye  look  at  that?  And  kape 
still  as  a  snake  while  you  're  doin*  it." 

Lying  perfectly  still,  I  looked  keenly  about  me,  seeing 
nothing  unusual. 

"  Look  up  across  yonder  an*  don't  bat  an  eye,"  said 
O'mie,  low  as  a  whisper. 

I  looked  up  toward  the  Hermit's  Cave.  Sitting  on  a 
point  of  rock  overhanging  the  river  was  an  Indian.  His 
back  was  toward  us  and  his  brilliant  red  blanket  had  a 
white  circle  in  the  centre. 

"  He 's  not  seen  us,  or  he  'd  niver  set  out  there  like  that/' 
and  O'mie  breathed  easier.  "  He  could  put  an  arrow 
through  us  here  as  aisy  as  to  snap  a  string,  an'  nobody  'd 
live  to  tell  the  tale.  Phil  Bar'net,  he  's  kapin'  den  in  that 
cave,  an'  the  devil  must  have  showed  him  how  to  git  up 
there." 

A  shout  up-stream  told  of  other  boys  coming  down  to 
our  swimming  place.  You  have  seen  a  humming  bird 
dart  out  of  sight.  So  the  Indian  on  the  rock  far  above  us 
vanished  at  that  sound. 

"  That's  Bill  Mead  comin' ;  I  know  his  whoop.  I  wish 
I  knew  which  side  av  that  Injun's  head  his  eyes  is  fas- 
tened on,"  said  O'mie,  still  motionless  in  the  water.  "  If 
he  's  watchin'  us  up  there,  I  'm  a  turtle  till  the  sun  goes 
down." 

A  low  peal  of  thunder  rolled  out  of  the  west  and  a  heavy 
black  cloud  swept  suddenly  over  the  sun.  The  blue 
shadow  of  the  bluff  fell  upon  the  Neosho  and  under  its 
friendly  cover  we  scrambled  into  our  clothes  and  scudded 
out  of  sight  among  the  trees  that  covered  the  east  bottom 
land. 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

"Now,  how  did  he  ever  get  to  that  place,  O'mie?"  I 
questioned. 

"  I  don't  know.     But  if  he  can  get  there,  I  can  too." 

Poor  O'mie!  he  did  not  know  how  true  a  prophecy  he 
was  uttering. 

"  Let 's  kape  this  to  oursilves,  Phil,"  counselled  my 
companion.  "  If  too  many  knows  it  Tell  may  lose  an- 
other pony,  or  somebody's  dead  dog  may  float  down  the 
stream  like  the  ould  hermit  did.  Let 's  burn  him  out  av 
there  oursilves.  Then  we  can  adorn  our  own  tepee  wid 
that  soft  black  La  Salle-Marquette-Hennepin  French 
scalp." 

I  agreed,  and  we  went  our  way  burdened  by  a  secret 
dangerous  but  fascinating  to  boys  like  ourselves. 


42 


CHAPTER    IV 
IN     THE     PRAIRIE    TWILIGHT 

The  spacious  prairie  is  helper  to  a  spacious  life. 
Big  thoughts  are  nurtured  here,  with  little  friction. 

—  QTJAYLE. 

BY  the  time  I  was  fifteen  I  was  almost  as  tall  and 
broad-shouldered  as  my  father.  Boy-like,  I  was 
prodigal  of  my  bounding  vigor,  which  had  not  tempered 
down  to  the  strength  of  my  mature  manhood.  It  was  well 
for  me  that  a  sobering  responsibility  fell  on  me  early,  else 
I  might  have  squandered  my  resources  of  endurance,  and 
in  place  of  this  sturdy  story-teller  whose  sixty  years  sit 
lightly  on  him,  there  would  have  been  only  a  ripple  in 
the  sod  of  the  curly  mesquite  on  the  Plains  and  a  little 
heap  of  dead  dust,  turned  to  the  inert  earth  again.  The 
West  grows  large  men,  as  it  grows  strong,  beautiful 
women ;  and  I  know  that  the  boys  and  girls  then  differed 
only  in  surroundings  and  opportunity  from  the  boys  and 
girls  of  Springvale  to-day.  Life  is  finer  in  its  appoint- 
ments now;  but  I  doubt  if  it  is  any  more  free  or  happy 
than  it  was  in  those  days  when  we  went  to  oyster  suppers 
and  school  exhibitions  up  in  the  Red  Range  neighborhood. 
Among  us  there  was  the  closest  companionship,  as  there 
needs  must  be  in  a  lonely  and  spacious  land.  What  can 
these  lads  and  lasses  of  to-day  know  of  a  youth  nurtured 
in  the  atmosphere  of  peril  and  uncertainty  such  as  every 
one  of  us  knew  in  those  years  of  border  strife  and  civil 

43 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

war?  Sometimes  up  here,  when  I  see  the  gay  automobile 
parties  spinning  out  upon  the  paved  street  and  over  that 
broad  highway  miles  and  miles  to  the  west,  I  remember 
the  time  when  we  rode  our  Indian  ponies  thither,  and  the 
whole  prairie  was  our  boulevard. 

Marjie  could  ride  without  bridle  or  saddle,  and  she  sat 
a  horse  like  a  cattle  queen.  The  four  Anderson  children 
were  wholesome  and  good-natured,  as  they  were  good 
scholars,  and  they  were  good  riders.  They  were  all  tow- 
headed  and  they  all  lisped,  and  Bud  was  the  most  hopeless 
case  among  them.  Flaxen-haired,  baby-faced  youngster 
that  he  was,  he  was  the  very  first  in  all  our  crowd  to 
learn  to  drop  on  the  side  of  his  pony  and  ride  like  a  Co- 
manche.  O'mie  and  I  also  succeeded  in  learning  that 
trick;  Tell  Mapleson  broke  a  collar-bone,  attempting  it; 
and  Jim  Conlow,  as  O'mie  said,  "  knocked  the  *  possum ' 
aff  his  mug  thryin'  to  achave  the  art."  He  fractured  the 
bones  of  his  nose,  making  his  face  a  degree  more  homely 
than  it  was  before.  Then  there  were  the  Mead  boys  to  be 
counted  on  everywhere.  Dave  went  West  years  ago, 
made  his  fortune,  and  then  began  to  traffic  with  the 
Orient.  His  name  is  better  known  in  Hong-Kong  now 
than  it  is  in  Springvale.  He  never  married,  and  it  used 
to  be  said  that  a  young  girl's  grave  up  in  the  Red  Range 
graveyard  held  all  his  hope  and  love.  I  do  not  know; 
for  he  left  home  the  year  I  came  up  to  Topeka  to  enlist, 
and  Springvale  was  like  the  bitter  waters  of  Marah  to 
my  spirit.  But  that  comes  later. 

Bill  Mead  married  Bessie  Anderson,  and  the  seven  little 
tow-headed  Meads,  stair-stepping  down  the  years,  played 
with  the  third  generation  here  as  we  used  to  play  in  the 
years  gone  by.  Bill  is  president  of  the  bank  on  the  corner 
where  the  old  Whately  store  stood  and  is  a  share-holder 
in  several  big  Kansas  City  concerns.  Bessie  lost  her  rosy 

44 


IN     THE    PRAIRIE    TWILIGHT 

cheeks  years  ago,  but  she  has  her  seven  children;  the 
youngest  of  them,  Phil,  named  for  me,  will  graduate  from 
the  Kansas  University  this  year.  Lettie  Conlow  was  al- 
ways on  the  uncertain  list  with  us.  No  Conlow  could  do 
much  with  a  horse  except  to  put  shoes  under  it.  It  was 
a  trick  of  hers  to  lag  behind  and  call  to  me  to  tighten  a 
girth,  while  Marjie  raced  on  with  Dave  Mead  or  Tell 
Mapleson.  Tell  liked  Lettie,  and  it  rasped  my  spirit  to 
be  made  the  object  of  her  preference  and  his  jealousy. 
Once  when  we  were  alone  his  anger  boiled  hot,  and  he 
shook  his  fist  at  me  and  cried: 

"  You  mean  pup !  You  want  to  take  my  girl  from  me. 
I  can  lick  you,  and  I  'm  going  to  do  it." 

I  was  bigger  than  Tell,  and  he  knew  my  strength. 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  you  would,"  I  said,  "  I  'd  rather 
be  licked  than  to  have  a  girl  I  don't  care  for  always  smil- 
ing at  me." 

Tell's  face  fell,  and  he  grinned  sheepishly. 

"Don't  you  really  care  for  Lettie,  Phil?  She  says  you 
like  Bess  Anderson." 

Was  that  a  trick  of  Lettie's  to  put  Marjie  out  of  my 
thought,  I  wondered,  or  did  she  really  know  my  heart?  I 
distrusted  Lettie.  She  was  so  like  her  black-eyed  father. 
But  I  had  guarded  my  own  feelings,  and  the  boys  and  girls 
had  not  guessed  what  Marjie  was  to  me. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Father  Le  Claire,  a  French 
priest  who  had  been  a  missionary  in  the  Southwest,  be- 
gan to  come  and  go  about  Springvale.  His  work  lay 
mostly  with  the  Osages  farther  down  the  Neosho,  but  he 
labored  much  among  the  Kaws.  He  was  a  kindly-spirited 
man,  reserved,  but  gentle  and  courteous  ever,  and  he  was 
very  fond  of  children.  He  was  always  in  town  on  annuity 
days,  when  the  tribes  came  up  for  their  quarterly  stipend 
from  the  Government.  Mapleson  was  the  Indian  agent. 

45 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

The  "  Last  Chance,"  unable  to  compete  with  its  commer- 
cial rival,  the  Whately  house,  had  now  a  drug  store  in  the 
front,  a  harness  shop  in  the  rear  and  a  saloon  in  the  cellar. 
It  was  to  this  "  Last  Chance  "  that  the  Indians  came  for 
their  money;  and  it  was  Father  Le  Claire  who  piloted 
many  of  them  out  to  the  trails  leading  southward  and 
started  them  on  the  way  to  their  villages,  sober  and  pos- 
sessed of  their  Government  allowance  or  its  equivalent  in 
honest  merchandise. 

From  the  first  visit  the  good  priest  took  to  Jean 
Pahusca,  and  he  helped  to  save  the  young  brave  from 
many  a  murdering  spell. 

To  O'mie  and  myself,  however,  remained  the  resolve  to 
drive  him  from  Springvale ;  for,  boy-like,  we  watched  him 
more  closely  than  the  men  did,  and  we  knew  him  better. 
He  was  not  the  only  one  of  our  town  who  drank  too 
freely.  Four  decades  ago  the  law  was  not  the  righteous 
force  it  is  to-day,  and  we  looked  upon  many  sights  which 
our  children,  thank  Heaven,  never  see  in  Kansas. 

"  Keep  out  of  that  Redskin's  way  when  he  's  drunk," 
was  Cam  Gentry's  advice  to  us.  "  You  know  he  'd  scalp 
his  grandmother  if  he  could  get  hold  of  her  then." 

We  kept  out  of  his  way,  but  we  bided  our  time. 

Father  Le  Claire  had  another  favorite  in  Springvale, 
and  that  was  O'mie.  He  said  little  to  the  Irish  orphan 
lad,  but  there  sprang  up  a  sort  of  understanding  between 
the  two.  Whenever  he  was  in  town,  O'mie  was  not  far 
away  from  him;  and  the  boy,  frank  and  confidential  in 
everything  else,  grew  strangely  silent  when  we  talked  of 
the  priest.  I  spoke  of  this  to  my  father  one  day.  He 
looked  keenly  at  me  and  said  quietly : 

"  You  would  make  a  good  lawyer,  Phil,  you  seem  to 
know  what  a  lawyer  must  know;  that  is,  what  people 
think  as  well  as  what  they  say." 

46 


IN     THE     PRAIRIE    TWILIGHT 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,  father,"  I  replied. 

"  Then  you  won't  make  a  good  lawyer.  It 's  the  under- 
standing that  makes  the  lawyer,"  and  he  changed  the  sub- 
ject. 

My  mind  was  not  greatly  disturbed  over  O'mie,  how- 
ever. I  was  young  and  neither  I  nor  my  companions 
were  troubled  by  anything  but  the  realities  of  the  day. 
Limited  as  we  were  by  circumstances  in  this  new  West, 
we  made  the  most  of  our  surroundings  and  of  one  another. 
How  much  the  prairies  meant  to  us,  as  they  unrolled  their 
springtime  glory!  From  the  noonday  blue  of  the  sky 
overhead  to  the  deep  verdure  of  the  land  below,  there 
ranged  every  dainty  tint  of  changeful  coloring.  Nature 
lavished  her  wealth  of  loveliness  here,  that  the  dream  of 
the  New  Jerusalem  might  not  seem  a  mere  phantasy  of 
the  poet  disciple  who  walked  with  the  Christ  and  was 
called  of  Him  "  The  Beloved." 

The  prairies  were  beautiful  to  me  at  any  hour,  but  most 
of  all  I  loved  them  in  the  long  summer  evenings  when 
the  burst  of  sunset  splendor  had  deepened  into  twilight. 
Then  the  afterglow  softened  to  that  purple  loveliness  in- 
describably rare  and  sweet,  wreathed  round  by  gray 
cloudfolds  melting  into  exquisite  pink,  the  last  far  echo 
of  the  daylight's  glory.  It  is  said  that  any  land  is  beau- 
tiful to  us  only  by  association.  Was  it  the  light  heart  of 
my  boyhood,  and  my  merry  comrades,  and  most  of  all, 
the  little  girl  who  was  ever  in  my  thoughts,  that  gave 
grandeur  to  these  prairies  and  filled  my  memory  with  pic- 
tures no  artist  could  ever  color  on  canvas?  I  cannot  say, 
for  all  these  have  large  places  in  my  mind's  treasury. 

From  early  spring  to  late  October  it  was  a  part  of  each 
day's  duty  for  the  youngsters  of  Springvale  to  go  in  the 
evening  after  the  cows  that  ranged  on  the  open  west.  We 
went  together,  of  course,  and,  of  course,  we  rode  our 

47 


THE     PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

ponies.  Sometimes  we  went  far  and  hunted  long  before 
we  found  the  cattle.  The  tenderest  grasses  grew  along 
the  draws,  and  these  often  formed  a  deep  wrinkle  on  the 
surface  where  our  whole  herd  was  hidden  until  we  came 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  depression.  Sometimes  the  herd 
was  scattered,  and  every  one  must  be  rounded  up  and 
headed  toward  town  before  we  left  the  prairie.  And  then 
we  loitered  on  the  homeward  way  and  sang  as  only  brave, 
free-spirited  boys  and  girls  can  sing.  And  the  prairie 
caught  our  songs  and  sent  them  rippling  far  and  far  over 
its  clear,  wide  spaces. 

As  the  twilight  deepened,  we  drew  nearer  together,  for 
comradeship  meant  protection.  Some  years  before,  a  boy 
had  been  stolen  out  on  these  prairies  one  day  by  a  band  of 
Kiowas,  and  that  night  the  mother  drowned  herself  in  the 
Neosho  above  town.  Her  home  had  been  in  a  little  stone 
cabin  round  the  north  bend  of  the  river.  It  was  in  the 
sheltered  draw  just  below  where  the  one  lone  cottonwood 
tree  made  a  landmark  on  the  Plains  —  a  deserted  habita- 
tion now,  and  said  to  be  haunted  by  the  spirit  of  the  un- 
happy mother.  The  child's  father,  a  handsome  French 
Canadian,  had  turned  Plainsman  and  gone  to  the  South- 
west and  had  not  been  heard  of  afterwards.  While  we 
had  small  grounds  for  fear,  we  kept  our  ponies  in  a  little 
group  coming  in  side  by  side  on  the  home  stretch.  All 
the  purple  shadows  of  those  sweet  summer  twilights  are 
blended  with  the  memories  of  those  happy  care-free  hours. 

In  the  long  summer  days  the  cows  ranged  wider  to  the 
west,  and  we  wandered  farther  in  our  evening  jaunts  and 
lingered  later  in  the  fragrant  draws  where  the  sweet 
grasses  were  starred  with  many  brilliant  blossoms.  That 
is  how  we  happened  to  be  away  out  on  the  northwest 
prairie  that  evening  when  Jean  Pahusca  found  us,  the 
evening  when  O'mie  read  my  secret  in  my  tell-tale  face. 


IN    THE    PRAIRIE    TWILIGHT 

Even  to-day  a  storm  cloud  in  the  northwest  with  the  sun- 
set flaming  against  its  jagged  edges  recalls  that  scene. 
The  cattle  had  all  been  headed  homeward,  and  we  were 
racing  our  ponies  down  the  long  slope  to  the  south.  On 
the  right  the  draw,  watched  over  by  the  big  cottonwood, 
breaks  through  the  height  and  finds  its  way  to  the  Neosho. 
The  watershed  between  the  river  and  Fingal's  Creek  is 
here  only  a  high  swell,  and  straight  toward  the  west  it  is 
level  as  a  floor. 

The  air  of  a  hot  afternoon  had  begun  to  ripple  in  cool 
little  waves  against  our  faces.  All  the  glory  of  the  mid- 
summer day  was  ending  in  the  grandeur  of  a  crimson  sun- 
set shaded  northward  by  that  threatening  thundercloud. 
With  our  ponies  lined  up  for  one  more  race  we  were  just 
on  the  point  of  starting,  when  a  whoop,  a  savage  yell, 
and  Jean  Pahusca  rose  above  the  edge  of  the  draw  be- 
hind us  and  dashed  toward  us  headlong.  We  knew  he 
was  drunk,  for  since  Father  Le  Claire's  coming  among  us 
he  had  come  to  be  a  sort  of  gentleman  Indian  when  he  was 
sober;  and  we  caught  the  naked  gleam  of  the  short  sharp 
knife  he  always  wore  in  a  leather  sheath  at  his  belt.  We 
were  thrown  into  confusion,  and  some  ponies  became  un- 
manageable at  once.  It  is  the  way  of  their  breed  to  turn 
traitor  with  the  least  sign  of  the  rider's  fear.  At  Jean's 
second  whoop  there  was  a  stampede.  Marjie's  pony  gave 
a  leap  and  started  off  at  full  gallop  toward  the  level  west. 
Hers  was  the  swiftest  horse  of  all,  but  the  Indian  coming 
at  an  angle  had  the  advantage  of  space,  and  he  singled  her 
out  in  a  moment.  Her  hair  hung  down  in  two  heavy 
braids,  and  as  she  gave  one  frightened  glance  backward  I 
saw  her  catch  them  both  in  one  hand  and  draw  them  over 
her  shoulder  as  if  to  save  them  from  the  scalping  knife. 

My  pony  leaped  to  follow  her  but  my  quick  eye  caught 
the  short  angle  of  the  Indian's  advantage.  I  turned,  white 
4  49 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

and  anguish-stricken,  toward  my  companions.  Then  it 
was  that  I  heard  O'mie's  low  words: 

"  Bedad,  Phil,  an'  that 's  how  it  is  wid  ye,  is  it?  Then 
we  've  got  to  kill  that  Injun,  just  for  grandeur." 

His  voice  set  a  mighty  force  tingling  in  every  nerve. 
The  thrill  of  that  moment  is  mine  after  all  these  years, 
for  in  that  instant  I  was  born  again.  I  believe  no  terror 
nor  any  torture  could  have  stayed  i . .  2  then,  and  death 
would  have  seemed  sublime  if  only  7  could  have  flung 
myself  between  the  girl  and  this  drink-crazed  creature 
seeking  in  his  irresponsible  madness  to  take  her  life.  It 
was  not  alone  that  this  was  Marjie,  and  there  swept  over 
me  the  full  realization  of  what  she  meant  to  me.  Some- 
thing greater  than  my  own  love  and  life  leaped  into  being 
within  me.  It  was  the  swift,  unworded  comprehension  of 
a  woman's  worth,  of  the  sacredness  of  her  life,  and  her 
divine  right  to  the  protection  of  her  virtue;  a  comprehen- 
sion of  the  beauty  and  blessing  of  the  American  home,  of 
the  obedient  daughter,  the  loving  wife,  the  Madonna 
mother,  of  all  that  these  mean  as  the  very  foundation  rock 
of  our  nation's  strength  and  honor.  It  swept  my  soul  like 
a  cleansing  fire.  The  words  for  this  came  later,  but  the 
force  of  it  swayed  my  understanding  in  that  instant's 
crisis.  Some  boys  grow  into  manhood  as  the  years  roll 
along,  and  some  leap  into  it  at  a  single  bound.  It  was 
a  boy,  Phil  Baronet,  who  went  out  after  the  cows  that 
careless  summer  day  so  like  all  the  other  summer  days 
before  it.  It  was  a  man,  Philip  Baronet,  who  followed 
them  home  that  dark  night,  fearing  neither  the  roar  of  the 
angry  storm  cloud  that  threshed  in  fury  above  us,  nor  any 
human  being,  though  he  were  filled  with  the  rage  of  mad- 
ness. 

At  O'mie's  word  I  dashed  after  Marjie.  Behind  me 
came  Bud  Anderson  and  Dave  Mead,  followed  by  every 

50 


IN     THE     PRAIRIE    TWILIGHT 

other  boy  and  girl.  O'mie  rode  beside  me,  and  not  one 
of  us  thought  of  himself.  It  was  all  done  in  a  flash,  and 
I  marvel  that  I  tell  its  mental  processes  as  if  they  were  a 
song  sung  in  long-metre  time.  But  it  is  all  so  clear  to 
me.  I  can  see  the  fiery  radiance  of  that  sky  blotted  by  the 
two  riders  before  me.  I  can  hear  the  crash  of  the  ponies' 
feet,  and  I  can  even  feel  the  sweep  of  wind  out  of  that 
storm-cloud  turning  the  white  under-side  of  the  big 
cottonwood's  leaves  uppermost  and  cutting  cold  now 
against  the  hot  air.  And  then  there  rises  up  that  ripple 
of  ground  made  by  the  ring  of  the  Osage's  tepee  in  the 
years  gone  by.  Marjie  deftly  swerved  her  pony  to  the 
south  and  skirted  that  little  ridge  of  ground  with  a  grace- 
ful curve,  as  though  this  were  a  mere  racing  game  and  not 
a  life-and-death  ride.  Jean's  horse  plunged  at  the  tepee 
ring,  leaped  to  the  little  hollow  beyond  it,  stumbled  and 
fell,  and,  pellmell,  like  a  stampede  of  cattle,  we  were  upon 
him. 

I  never  could  understand  how  Dave  Mead  headed  the 
crowd  back  and  kept  the  whole  mass  from  piling  up  on 
the  fallen  Indian  and  those  nearest  to  him.  Nor  do  I  un- 
derstand why  some  of  us  were  not  crushed  or  kicked  out 
of  life  in  that  melee  of  ponies  and  riders  struggling  madly 
together.  What  I  do  know  is  that  Bud  Anderson,  who 
was  not  thrown  from  his  horse,  caught  Jean's  pony  by  the 
bridle  and  dragged  it  clear  of  the  mass.  It  was  O'mie's 
quick  hand  that  wrested  that  murderous  knife  from  the 
Indian's  grasp,  and  it  was  my  strong  arm  that  held  him 
with  a  grip  of  iron.  The  shock  sobered  him  instantly. 
He  struggled  a  moment,  and  then  the  cunning  that  always 
deceived  us  gained  control.  The  Indian  spirit  vanished, 
and  with  something  masterful  in  his  manner  he  relaxed  all 
effort.  Lifting  his  eyes  to  mine  with  no  trace  of  resent- 
ment in  their  impenetrable  depths,  he  said  evenly: 


THE     PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  Let  me  go.     I  was  drunk.     I  was  fool." 

"Let  him  go,  Phil.  He  did  act  kinder  drunk,"  Bill 
Mead  urged,  and  I  loosed  my  hold.  I  knew  instinctively 
that  we  were  safe  now,  as  I  knew  also  that  this  submission 
of  Jean  Pahusca's  must  be  paid  for  later  with  heavy  inter- 
est by  somebody. 

"Here'th  your  horth;  s'pothe  you  thkite,"  lisped  Bud 
Anderson. 

Jean  sprang  upon  his  pony  and  dashed  off.  We 
watched  him  ride  away  down  the  long  slope.  In  a  few 
moments  another  horseman  joined  him,  and  they  took 
the  trail  toward  the  Kaw  reservation.  It  was  Father 
Le  Claire  riding  with  the  Indian  into  the  gathering 
shadows  of  the  south. 

I  turned  to  Marjie  standing  beside  me.  Her  big  brown 
eyes  were  luminous  with  tears,  and  her  face  was  as  white 
as  my  mother's  face  was  on  the  day  the  sea  left  its  bur- 
den on  the  Rockport  sands.  It  was  hate  that  made  Jean 
Pahusca  veil  his  countenance  for  me  a  moment  before. 
Something  of  which  hate  can  never  know  made  me  look 
down  at  her  calmly.  O'mie's  hand  was  on  my  shoulder 
and  his  eyes  were  on  us  both.  There  was  a  quaint  ap- 
proval in  his  glance  toward  me.  He  knew  the  self-control 
I  needed  then. 

"  Phil  saved  you,  Marjie,"  Mary  Gentry  exclaimed. 

"  No,  he  saved  Jean,"  put  in  Lettie. 

"  And  O'mie  saved  Phil,"  Bess  Anderson  urged.  "  Just 
grabbed  that  knife  in  time." 

"  Well,  I  thaved  mythelf,"  Bud  piped  in. 

He  never  could  find  any  heroism  in  himself  who,  more 
than  any  other  boy  among  us,  had  a  record  for  pulling 
drowning  boys  out  of  the  Deep  Hole  by  the  Hermit's 
Cave,  and  killing  rattlesnakes  in  the  cliff's  crevices,  and 

52 


IN     THE     PRAIRIE    TWILIGHT 

daring  the  dark  when  the  border  ruffians  were   hiding 
about  Springvale. 

An  angry  growl  of  thunder  gave  us  warning  of  the  com- 
ing storm.  In  our  long  race  home  before  its  wrath,  in 
the  dense  darkness  wrapping  the  landscape,  we  could  only 
trust  to  the  ponies  to  keep  the  way.  Marjie  rode  close  by 
my  side  that  night,  and  more  than  once  my  hand  found 
hers  in  the  darkness  to  assure  her  of  protection.  O'mie, 
bless  his  red  head!  crowded  Lettie  to  the  far  side  of  the 
group,  keeping  Tell  on  the  other  side  of  her. 

When  I  climbed  the  hill  on  Cliff  Street  that  night  I 
turned  by  the  bushes  and  caught  the  gleam  of  Marjie's 
light.  I  gave  the  whistling  call  we  had  kept  for  our  signal 
these  years,  and  I  saw  the  light  waver  as  a  good-night 
signal. 

That  night  I  could  not  sleep.  The  storm  lasted  for 
hours,  and  the  rain  swept  in  sheets  across  the  landscape. 
The  darkness  was  intense,  and  the  midsummer  heat  of  the 
day  was  lost  in  the  chill  of  that  drouth-breaking  torrent. 
After  midnight  I  went  to  my  father's  room.  He  had  not 
retired,  but  was  sitting  by  the  window  against  which  the 
rain  beat  heavily.  The  light  burned  low,  and  his  fine  face 
was  dimly  outlined  in  the  shadows.  I  sat  down  beside  his 
knee  as  I  was  wont  to  do  in  childhood. 

"  Father,"  I  began  hesitatingly,  "  Father,  do  you  still 
love  my  mother?  Could  you  care  for  anybody  else? 
Does  a  man  ever  —  "  I  could  not  say  more.  Something 
so  like  tears  was  coming  into  my  voice  that  my  cheeks 
grew  hot. 

My  father's  hand  rested  gently  on  my  head,  his  fingers 
stroking  the  ripples  of  my  hair.  White  as  it  is  now,  it 
was  dark  and  wavy  then,  as  my  mother's  had  been.  It 
was  the  admiration  of  the  women  and  girls,  which  admira- 

53 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

tion  always  annoyed  and  embarrassed  me.  In  and  out  of 
those  set  waves  above  my  forehead  his  fingers  passed 
caressingly.  He  knew  the  heart  of  a  boy,  and  he  sat 
silent  there,  letting  me  feel  that  I  could  tell  him  anything. 

"Have  you  come  to  the  cross-roads,  Phil?"  he  asked 
gently.  "  I  was  thinking  of  you  as  I  sat  here.  Maybe 
that  brought  you  in.  Your  boyhood  must  give  way  to 
manhood  soon.  These  times  of  civil  war  change  condi- 
tions for  our  children,"  he  mused  to  himself,  rather  than 
spoke  to  me.  "  We  expect  a  call  to  the  front  soon,  Phil. 
When  I  am  gone,  I  want  you  to  do  a  man's  part  in  Spring- 
vale.  You  are  only  a  boy,  I  know,  but  you  have  a  man's 
strength,  my  son." 

"And  a  man's  spirit,  too,"  I  cried,  springing  up  and 
standing  erect  before  him.  "Let  me  go  with  you, 
Father." 

"  No,  Phil,  you  must  stay  here  and  help  to  protect  these 
homes,  just  as  we  men  must  go  out  to  fight  for  them.  To 
the  American  people  war  does  n't  mean  glory  nor  con- 
quest. It  means  safety  and  freedom,  and  these  begin  and 
end  in  the  homes  of  our  land." 

The  impulse  wakened  on  the  prairie  that  evening  at  the 
sight  of  Marjie's  peril  leaped  up  again  within  me. 

"  I  '11  do  my  best.  But  tell  me,  Father,"  I  had  dropped 
down  beside  him  again,  "  do  you  still  love  my  mother  ? 
Does  a  man  love  the  same  woman  always?  " 

Few  boys  of  my  age  would  have  asked  such  a  question 
of  a  man.  My  father  took  both  of  my  hands  into  his  own 
strong  hands  and  in  the  dim  light  he  searched  my  face 
with  his  keen  eyes. 

"  Men  differ  in  their  natures,  my  boy.  Even  fathers  and 
sons  do  not  always  think  alike.  I  can  speak  only  for  my- 
self. Do  I  love  the  woman  who  gave  you  birth?  Oh, 
Phil!" 

54 


IN    THE     PRAIRIE    TWILIGHT 

No  need  for  him  to  say  more.  Over  his  face  there 
swept  an  expression  of  tenderness  such  as  I  have  never 
seen  save  as  at  long  intervals  I  have  caught  it  on  the  face 
of  a  sweet-browed  mother  bending  above  a  sleeping  babe. 
I  rose  up  before  him,  and  stooping,  I  kissed  his  forehead. 
It  was  a  sacred  hour,  and  I  went  out  from  his  presence 
with  a  new  bond  binding  us  together  who  had  been  com- 
panions all  my  days.  My  dreams  when  I  fell  asleep  at 
last  were  all  of  Marjie,  and  through  them  all  her  need  for 
a  protector  was  mingled  with  a  still  greater  need  for  my 
guardianship.  It  came  from  two  women  who  were 
strangers  to  me,  whose  faces  I  had  never  seen  before. 


CHAPTER    V 
A     GOOD     INDIAN 

Underneath  that  face  like  summer's  ocean, 
Its  lips  as  moveless,  and  its  brow  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotion, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow, —  all  save  fear. 

CAST  in  the  setting  of  to-day,  after  such  an  attempt 
on  human  life  as  we  broke  up  on  the  prairie,  Jean 
Pahusca  would  have  been  hiding  in  the  coverts  of  Okla- 
homa, or  doing  time  at  the  Lansing  penitentiary  for  at- 
tempted assault  with  intent  to  kill.  The  man  who  sold 
him  the  whiskey  would  be  in  the  clutches  of  the  law,  car- 
rying his  case  up  to  the  Supreme  Court,  backed  by  the 
slush  fund  of  the  brewers*  union.  The  Associated  Press 
would  give  the  incident  a  two-inch  heading  and  a  one-inch 
story;  and  the  snail  would  stay  on  the  thorn,  and  the 
lark  keep  on  the  wing. 

Even  in  that  time  Springvale  would  not  have  tolerated 
the  Indian  among  us  had  it  not  been  that  the  minds  of 
the  people  were  fermenting  with  other  things.  We  were 
on  the  notorious  old  border  between  free  and  slave  lands, 
whose  tragedies  rival  the  tales  of  the  Scottish  border. 
Kansas  had  been  a  storm  centre  since  the  day  it  became 
a  Territory,  and  the  overwhelming  theme  was  negro 
slavery.  Every  man  was  marked  as  "  pro "  or  "  anti." 
There  was  no  neutral  ground.  Springvale  was  by  ma- 
jority a  Free-State  town.  A  certain  element  with  us, 

56 


A     GOOD     INDIAN 

however,  backed  up  by  the  Fingal's  Creek  settlement,  de- 
clared openly  and  vindictively  for  slavery.  It  was  from 
this  class  that  we  had  most  to  fear.  While  the  best  of  our 
people  were  giving  their  life-blood  to  save  a  nation,  these 
men  connived  with  border  raiders  who  would  not  hesitate 
to  take  the  life  and  property  of  every  Free-State  citizen. 
When  our  soldiers  marched  away  to  fields  of  battle,  they 
knew  they  were  leaving  an  enemy  behind  them,  and  no 
man's  home  was  safe.  Small  public  heed  was  paid  then 
to  the  outbreak  of  a  drunken  Indian  boy  who  had  been 
overcome  in  a  scrap  out  on  the  prairie  when  the  young- 
sters were  hunting  their  cows. 

Where  the  bushes  grow  over  the  edge  of  the  bluff  at  the 
steep  bend  in  Cliff  Street,  a  point  of  rock  projects  beyond 
the  rough  side.  By  a  rude  sort  of  stone  steps  beside  this 
point  we  could  clamber  down  many  feet  to  the  bush- 
grown  ledge  below.  This  point  had  been  a  meeting-place 
and  playground  for  Marjie  and  myself  all  those  years. 
We  named  it  "  Rockport "  after  the  old  Massachusetts 
town.  Marjie  could  hear  my  call  from  the  bushes  and 
come  up  to  the  half-way  place  between  our  two  homes. 
The  stratum  of  rock  below  this  point  was  full  of  cunning 
little  crevices  and  deep  hiding-places.  One  of  these, 
known  only  to  Marjie  and  myself,  we  called  our  post- 
office,  and  many  a  little  note,  scrawled  in  childish  hand, 
but  always  directed  to  "  Rockport "  like  a  real  address 
on  the  outside  fold,  we  left  for  each  other  to  find.  Some- 
times it  was  a  message,  sometimes  it  was  only  a  joke,  and 
sometimes  it  was  just  a  line  of  childish  love-making.  We 
always  put  our  valentines  in  this  private  house  of  Uncle 
Sam's  postal  service.  Maybe  that  was  why  the  other 
boys  and  girls  did  not  couple  our  names  together  oftener. 
Everybody  knew  who  got  valentines  at  the  real  post-office 
and  where  they  came  from. 

57 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

On  the  evening  after  the  storm  there  was  no  loitering 
on  the  prairie.  While  we  knew  there  was  no  danger,  a 
half-dozen  boys  brought  the  cows  home  long  before  the 
daylight  failed.  At  sunset  I  went  down  to  "  Rockport," 
intending  to  whistle  to  Marjie.  How  many  a  summer 
evening  together  here  we  had  watched  the  sunset  on  the 
prairie!  To-night,  for  no  reason  that  I  could  give,  I 
parted  the  bushes  and  climbed  down  to  the  ledge  below, 
intending  in  a  moment  to  come  up  again.  I  paused  to 
listen  to  the  lowing  of  some  cows  down  the  river.  All  the 
sweet  sounds  and  odors  of  evening  were  in  the  air,  and 
the  rain-washed  woodland  of  the  Neosho  Valley  was  in 
its  richest  green.  I  did  not  notice  that  the  bushes  hid  me 
until,  as  I  turned,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  red  blanket, 
with  a  circular  white  centre,  sliding  up  that  stairway.  An 
instant  later,  a  call,  my  signal  whistle,  sounded  from  the 
rock  above.  I  stood  on  the  ledge  under  the  point,  my 
heart  the  noisiest  thing  in  all  that  summer  landscape  full 
of  soft  twilight  utterances.  I  was  too  far  below  the  cliff's 
edge  to  catch  any  answering  call,  but  I  determined  to 
fling  that  blanket  and  its  wearer  off  the  height  if  any  harm 
should  even  threaten.  Presently  I  heard  a  light  footstep, 
and  Marjie  parted  the  bushes  above  me.  Before  she  could 
cry  out,  Jean  spoke  to  her.  His  voice  was  clear  and 
sweet  as  I  had  never  heard  it  before,  and  I  do  not  wonder 
it  reassured  her. 

"  No  afraid,  Star-face,  no  afraid.  Jean  wants  one 
word." 

Marjie  did  not  move,  and  I  longed  to  let  her  know  how 
near  I  was  to  her,  and  yet  I  dared  not  till  I  knew  his  pur- 
pose. 

"  Star-face,"  he  began,  "  Jean  drink  no  more.  Jean 
promise  Padre  Le  Claire,  never,  never,  Star-face,  not  be 


A     GOOD     INDIAN 

afraid  anymore,   never,   never.    Jean   good   Indian   now. 
Always  keep  evil  from  Star-face." 

How  full  of  affection  were  his  tones.  I  wondered  at  his 
broken  Indian  tongue,  for  he  had  learned  good  English, 
and  sometimes  he  surpassed  us  all  in  the  terse  excellence 
and  readiness  of  his  language.  Why  should  he  hesitate 
so  now? 

"  Star-face,"  —  there  was  a  note  of  self-control  in  his 
pleading  voice, —  "  I  will  never  drink  again.  I  would  not 
do  harm  to  you.  Don't  be  afraid." 

I  heard  her  words  then,  soft  and  sweet,  with  that  tremor 
of  fear  she  could  never  overcome. 

"  I  hope  you  won't,  Jean." 

Then  the  bushes  crackled,  as  she  turned  and  sped  away. 

I  was  just  out  of  sight  again  when  that  red  blanket 
slipped  down  the  rocks  and  disappeared  over  the  side  of 
the  ledge  in  the  jungle  of  bushes  below  me. 

A  little  later,  when  Mary  Gentry  and  O'mie  and  I  sat 
with  Marjie  on  the  Whately  doorstep,  she  told  us  what 
Jean  had  said. 

"Do  you  really  think  he  will  be  good  now?"  asked 
Mary.  She  was  always  credulous. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  Marjie  answered  carelessly. 

Her  reply  angered  me.  She  seemed  so  ready  to  trust 
the  word  of  this  savage  who  twenty-four  hours  before  had 
tried  to  scalp  her.  Did  his  manner  please  Marjie?  Was 
the  foolish  girl  attracted  by  this  picturesque  creature?  I 
clenched  my  fists  in  the  dark. 

"  Girls  are  such  silly  things,"  I  said  to  myself.  "  I 
thought  better  of  Marjie,  but  she  is  like  all  the  rest." 
And  then  I  blushed  in  the  dark  for  having  such  mean 
thoughts. 

"  Don't  you  think  he  will  be  good  now,  Phil?  " 

59 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

I  did  not  know  how  eagerly  she  waited  for  my  answer. 
Poor  Marjie!  To  her  the  Indian  name  was  always  a  ter- 
ror. Before  I  could  reply  O'mie  broke  in: 

"  Marjory  Whately,  ye  '11  excuse  me  fur  referrin'  to  it, 
but  I  ain't  no  bigger  than  you  are." 

O'mie  had  not  grown  as  the  most  of  us  had,  and  while 
he  had  a  lightning  quickness  of  movement,  and  a  courage 
that  never  faltered,  he  was  no  match  for  the  bigger  boys 
in  strength  and  endurance.  Marjie  was  rounding  into 
graceful  womanhood  now,  but  she  was  not  of  the  slight 
type.  She  never  lost  her  dimples,  and  the  vigorous  air 
of  the  prairies  gave  her  that  splendid  physique  that  made 
her  a  stranger  to  sickness  and  kept  the  wild-rose  bloom 
on  her  fair  cheeks.  O'mie  did  not  outweigh  her. 

"  Ye  '11  'scuse  me,"  O'mie  went  on,  "  fur  the  embar- 
rassin'  statement;  but  I  ain't  big,  I  run  mostly  to  brains, 
while  Phil  here,  an'  Bill,  an'  Dave,  an'  Bud,  an'  Possum 
Conlow  runs  mostly  to  beef;  an'  yet,  bein'  small,  I  ain't 
afraid  none  of  your  good  Injun.  But  take  this  warnin' 
from  me,  an'  old  friend  that  knew  your  grandmother  in 
long  clothes,  that  you  kape  wide  of  Jean  Pahusca's  trail. 
Don't  you  trust  him." 

Marjie  gave  a  little  shiver.  Had  I  been  something  less 
a  fool  then  I  should  have  known  that  it  was  a  shiver  of 
fear,  but  I  was  of  the  age  to  know  everything,  and  O'mie 
sitting  there  had  learned  my  heart  in  a  moment  on  the 
prairie  the  evening  before.  And  then  I  wanted  Marjie  to 
trust  to  me.  Her  eyes  were  like  stars  in  the  soft  twilight, 
and  her  white  face  lost  its  color,  but  she  did  not  look  at 
me. 

"  Don't  you  trust  that  mock-turtle  Osage,  Marjorie, 
don't."  O'mie  was  more  deeply  in  earnest  than  we 
thought. 

"  But  O'mie,"  Marjie  urged,  "  Jean  was  just  as  earnest 

60 


A     GOOD     INDIAN 

as  you  are  now ;  and  you  'd  say  so,  too,  Phil,  if  you  had 
heard  him." 

She  was  right.  The  words  I  had  heard  from  above  the 
rock  rang  true. 

"  And  if  he  really  wants  to  do  better,  what  have  we  all 
been  told  in  the  Sunday-school?  'Thou  shalt  love  thy 
neighbor  as  thyself/  " 

I  could  have  caught  that  minor  chord  of  fear  had  I  been 
more  master  of  myself  at  that  moment. 

"Have  ye  talked  wid  Father  Le  Claire?"  asked  O'mie. 
"  Let 's  lave  the  baste  to  him.  Phil,  whin  does  your  padre 
and  his  Company  start  to  subdue  the  rebillious  South?" 

"  Pretty  soon,  father  says." 

"  My  father  is  going  too,"  Marjie  said  gently,  "  and 
Henry  Anderson  and  Cris  Mead,  and  all  the  men." 

"  Oh,  well,  we  '11  take  care  of  the  widders  an'  orphans." 
O'mie  spoke  carelessly,  but  he  added,  "  It 's  grand  whin 
such  min  go  out  to  foight  fur  a  country.  Uncle  Cam 
wants  to  go  if  he  's  aqual  to  the  tests ;  you  know  he  's  too 
near-sighted  to  see  a  soldier.  Why  don't  you  go  too, 
Phil?  You  're  big  as  your  dad,  an'  not  half  so  essential  to 
Springvale.  Just  lave  it  to  sich  social  ornimints  as  me 
an'  Marjie's  'good  Injun.' " 

Agan  Marjie  shivered. 

"  I  want  to  go,  but  father  won't  let  me  leave  —  Aunt 
Candace." 

"  An'  he  's  right,  as  is  customary  wid  him.  You  nade 
your  aunt  to  take  care  of  you.  He  could  n't  be  stoppin' 
the  battle  to  lace  up  your  shoes  an'  see  that  you  'd  washed 
your  neck.  Come,  Mary,  little  girls  must  be  gettin' 
home."  And  he  and  Mary  trotted  down  the  slope  toward 
the  twinkling  lights  of  the  Cambridge  House. 

Before  I  reached  home,  O'mie  had  overtaken  me,  say- 
ing: 

61 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

"  Come,  Phil,  let 's  rest  here  a  minute." 

We  were  just  by  the  bushes  that  shut  off  my  "  Rock- 
port,"  so  we  parted  them  and  sat  down  on  the  point  of 
rock.  The  moon  was  rising,  red  in  the  east,  and  the  Neo- 
sho  Valley  below  us  was  just  catching  its  gleams  on  the 
treetops,  while  each  point  of  the  jagged  bluff  stood  out 
silvery  white  above  the  dark  shadows.  A  thousand 
crickets  and  katydids  were  chirping  in  the  grass.  It  was 
only  on  the  town  side  that  the  bushes  screened  this  point. 
All  the  west  prairie  was  in  that  tender  gloom  that  would 
roll  back  in  shadowy  waves  before  the  rising  moon. 

"  Phil,"  O'mie  began,  "  don't  be  no  bigger  fool  than  na- 
ture cut  you  out  fur  to  be.  Don't  you  trust  that '  good  In- 
jun' of  Marjie's,  but  kape  one  eye  on  him  comin'  an 
t'  other  'n  on  him  goin'." 

"  I  don't  trust  him,  O'mie,  but  he  has  a  voice  that  de- 
ceives. I  don't  wonder,  being  a  girl,  Marjie  is  caught  by 
it." 

"An*  you,  bein'  a  boy,"  O'mie  mimicked,— "  Phil, 
you  're  enough  to  turn  my  hair  rid.  But  never  mind,  ye 
can't  trust  him.  Fur  why?  He's  not  to  be  trusted.  If 
he  was  aven  Injun  clean  through  you  could  a  little,  maybe. 
Some  Osages  has  honor  to  shame  a  white  man,—  aven  an 
Irishman, —  but  he  's  not  Osage.  He  's  a  Kiowa,  the  kind 
that  stole  that  little  chap  years  ago  up  toward  Rid  Range. 
An'  he  ain't  Kiowa  altogether  nather.  The  Injun  blood 
gives  him  cuteness,  but  half  his  cussedness  is  in  that  soft 
black  scalp  an'  that  soft  voice  sayin',  *  Good  Injun.' 
There 's  some  old  Louis  XIV  somewhere  in  his  family 
tree.  The  roots  av  it  may  be  in  the  Plains  out  here,  but 
some  branch  is  a  graft  from  a  Orleans  rose-bush.  He  's 
got  the  blossoms  an'  the  thorns  av  a  Frenchman.  An' 
besides,"  O'mie  added,  "  as  if  us  two  wise  men  av  the 
West  did  n't  know,  comes  Father  Le  Claire  to  me  to-day. 

62 


A     GOOD     INDIAN 

He  's  Jean's  guide  an*  counsellor.  An*  Phil,  begorra,  them 
two  looks  alike.  Same  square-cut  kind  o'  foreheads 
they  've  got.  Annyhow,  I  was  waterin'  the  horses  down 
to  the  ford,  an*  Father  Le  Claire  comes  on  me  sudden, 
ridin'  up  on  the  Kaw  trail  from  the  south.  He  blessed 
me  wid  his  holy  hand  and  then  says  quick : 

" '  O'mie,  ye  are  a  lad  I  can, trust ! '  " 

"  I  nodded,  not  knowin'  why  annybody  can't  be  trusted 
who  goes  swimmin'  once  a  week,  an'  never  tastes  whiskey, 
an'  don't  practise  lyin',  nor  shirkin'  his  stunt  at  the  Cam- 
bridge House." 

' '  Omie,'  says  he,  '  I  want  to  tell  you  who  you  must  not 
trust.  It  is  Jean  Pahusca,'  says  he ;  '  I  wish  I  did  n't  nade 
to  say  it,  but  it  is  me  duty  to  warn  ye.  Don't  mistreat 
him,  but  O'mie,  for  Heaven's  sake,  kape  your  eyes  open, 
especially  when  he  promises  to  be  good.'  It 's  our  stunt, 
Phil,  to  watch  him  close  now  he  's  took  to  reformin'  to  the 
girls." 

"  O'mie,  we  know,  and  Father  Le  Claire  knows,  but 
how  can  we  make  those  foolish  girls  understand?  Mary 
believes  everything  that 's  said  to  her  anyhow,  and  you 
heard  Marjie  to-night.  She  thinks  she  should  take  Jean 
at  his  word." 

"  Phil,  you  are  all  right,  seemin'ly.  You  can  lick  any  av 
us.  You  've  got  the  build  av  a  giant,  an'  you  've  beauti- 
ful hair  an'  teeth.  An'  you  are  son  an'  heir  to  John  Bar- 
'net,  which  is  an  asset  some  av  us  would  love  to  possess, 
bein'  orphans,  an'  the  lovely  ladies  av  Springvale  is  all  be- 
witched by  you ;  but  you  are  a  blind,  blitherin'  ijit  now  an' 
again." 

"  Well,  you  heard  what  Marjie  said,  and  how  careless 
she  was." 

"  Yes,  an'  I  seen  her  shiver  an*  turn  white  the  instant 
too.  Phil,  she  's  doin'  that  to  kape  us  from  bein'  unaisy, 

63 


THE    PRICE    OF    TH'E    PRAIRIE 

an*  it 's  costin*  her  some  to  do  it.  Bless  her  pretty  face ! 
Phil,  don't  be  no  bigger  fool  than  ye  can  kape  from." 

In  less  than  a  week  after  the  incident  on  the  prairie  my 
father's  Company  was  called  to  the  firing  line  of  the  Civil 
War  and  the  responsibilities  of  life  fell  suddenly  upon  me. 
There  was  a  great  gathering  in  town  on  the  day  the  men 
marched  away.  Where  the  opera  house  stands  now  was 
the  corner  of  a  big  vacant  patch  of  ground  reaching  out 
toward  the  creek.  To-day  it  was  filled  with  the  crowd 
come  to  see  the  soldiers  and  bid  them  good-bye.  A 
speaker's  stand  was  set  up  in  the  yard  of  the  Cambridge 
House  and  the  boys  in  blue  were  in  the  broad  street  before 
it.  It  was  the  last  civilian  ceremony  for  many  of  them, 
for  that  Kansas  Company  went  up  Missionary  Ridge  at 
Chattanooga,  led  the  line  as  Kansans  will  ever  do,  and  in 
the  face  of  a  murderous  fire  they  drove  the  foeman  back. 
But  many  of  them  never  came  home  to  wear  their  laurels 
of  victory.  They  lie  in  distant  cemeteries  under  the 
shadow  of  tall  monuments.  They  lie  in  old  neglected 
fields,  in  sunken  trenches,  by  lonely  waysides,  and  in  deep 
Southern  marshes,  waiting  all  the  last  great  Reunion.  If 
I  should  live  a  thousand  years,  the  memory  of  that  bright 
summer  morning  would  not  fade  from  my  mind. 

Dr.  Hemingway,  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  Church, 
presided  over  the  meeting,  and  the  crowd  about  the  sol- 
diers was  reinforced  by  all  the  countryside  beyond  the  Ne- 
osho  and  the  whole  Red  Range  neighborhood. 

Skulking  about  the  edge  of  the  company,  or  gathered  in 
little  groups  around  the  corners  just  out  of  sight,  were  the 
pro-slavery  sympathizers,  augmented  by  the  Fingal's 
Creek  crowd,  who  were  of  the  Secession  element  clear 
through.  In  the  doorway  of  the  "  Last  Chance  "  sat  the 
Rev.  Dodd,  pastor  of  the  Springvale  Methodist  Church 
South,  taking  no  part  in  this  patriotic  occasion.  Father 

64 


A     GOOD     INDIAN 

Le  Claire  was  beside  Dr.  Hemingway.  He  said  not  a 
word,  but  Springvale  knew  he  was  a  power  for  peace.  He 
did  not  sanction  bloodshed  even  in  a  righteous  cause. 
Neither  would  he  allow  those  who  followed  his  faith  to 
lift  a  hand  against  those  who  did  go  out  to  battle.  We 
trusted  him  and  he  never  betrayed  that  trust.  This 
morning  I  recalled  what  O'mie  had  said  about  his  looking 
like  Jean  Pahusca.  His  broad  hat  was  pushed  back  from 
his  square  dark  forehead ;  and  the  hair,  soft  and  jetty,  had 
the  same  line  about  the  face.  But  not  one  feature  there 
bespoke  an  ignoble  spirit.  I  did  not  understand  him,  but 
I  was  drawn  toward  him,  as  I  was  repelled  by  the  Indian 
from  the  moment  I  first  saw  his  head  above  the  bluff  on 
the  rainy  October  evening  long  ago. 

How  little  the  Kansas  boys  and  girls  to-day  can  under- 
stand what  that  morning  meant  to  us,  when  we  saw  our 
fathers  riding  down  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  to  the  east,  and 
waving  good-bye  to  us  at  the  far  side  of  the  ford!  How 
the  fire  of  patriotism  burned  in  our  hearts,  and  how  the 
sudden  loss  of  all  our  strongest  and  best  men  left  us  help- 
less among  secret  cruel  enemies!  And  then  that  spirit 
of  manhood  leaped  up  within  us,  the  sudden  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility come  to  "  all  the  able-bodied  boys  "  to  stand 
up  as  a  wall  of  defence  about  the  homes  of  Springvale. 
Too  well  we  knew  the  dangers.  Had  we  not  lived  on  this 
Kansas  border  in  all  those  plastic  years  when  the  mind 
takes  deepest  impressions?  The  ruffianism  of  Leaven- 
worth  and  Lawrence  and  Ossawatomie  had  been  repeated 
in  the  unprotected  surroundings  of  Springvale.  The  Red 
Range  schoolhouse  had  been  burned,  and  the  teacher,  a 
Massachusetts  man,  had  been  drowned  in  a  shallow  pool 
near  the  source  of  Fingal's  Creek,  his  body  fastened  face 
downward  so  that  a  few  inches  of  water  were  enough  for 
the  fiendish  purpose.  Eastward  the  settlers  had  fled  to 
5  65 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

our  town,  time  and  again,  to  escape  the  border  raiders, 
whose  coming  meant  death  to  the  free-spirited  father,  and 
a  widow  and  orphans  left  destitute  beside  the  smoking 
embers  of  what  had  been  a  home.  Those  were  busy  days 
in  Kansas,  and  the  memory  of  them  can  yet  stir  the  heart 
of  a  man  of  sixty  years. 

That  morning  Dr.  Hemingway  offered  prayer,  the 
prayer  of  a  godly  man,  for  the  souls  of  men  about  to  be 
baptized  with  a  baptism  of  blood  that  other  men  might  be 
free,  and  a  peaceful  generation  might  walk  with  ease 
where  their  feet  trod  red-hot  ploughshares;  a  prayer  for 
the  strong  arm  of  God  Almighty,  to  uphold  every  sol- 
dier's hands  until  the  cause  of  right  should  triumph;  a 
prayer  for  the  heavenly  Father's  protection  about  the 
homes  left  fatherless  for  the  sake  of  His  children. 

And  then  he  prayed  for  us,  "  for  Philip  Baronet,  the 
strong  and  manly  son  of  his  noble  father,  John  Baronet; 
for  David  and  William  Mead,  for  John  and  Clayton  and 
August  Anderson."  He  prayed  for  Tell  Mapleson,  too 
(Tell  was  always  square  in  spite  of  his  Copperhead 
father),  and  for  "  Thomas  O'Meara."  We  hardly  knew 
whom  he  meant. 

Bud  Anderson  whispered  later,  "  Thay,  O'mie,  you  '11 
never  get  into  kingdom  come  under  an  athumed  name. 
Better  thtick  to  *  O'mie.' " 

And  last  of  all  the  good  Doctor  prayed  for  the  wives 
and  daughters,  that  they  "  be  strong  and  very  coura- 
geous," doing  their  part  of  working  and  waiting  as  bravely 
as  they  do  who  go  out  to  stirring  action.  Then  ringing 
speeches  followed.  I  remember  them  all;  but  most  of  all 
the  words  of  my  father  and  of  Irving  Whately  are  fixed 
in  my  mind.  My  father  lived  many  years  and  died  one 
sunset  hour  when  the  prairies  were  in  their  autumn  glory, 
died  with  his  face  to  the  western  sky,  his  last  earthly 

66 


A     GOOD     INDIAN 

scene  that  peaceful  prairie  with  the  grandeur  of  a  thousand 
ever-changing  hues  building  up  a  wall  like  to  the  walls  of 
the  New  Jerusalem  which  Saint  John  saw  in  a  vision  on 
the  Isle  of  Patmos.  There  was 

No  moaning  of  the  bar 
When  he  put  out  to  sea 

for  he  died  beautifully,  as  he  had  lived.  I  never  saw  Irv- 
ing Whately  again,  for  he  went  down  before  the  rebel 
fire  at  Chattanooga ;  but  the  sound  of  his  voice  I  still  can 
hear. 

The  words  of  these  men  seemed  to  lift  me  above  the 
clouds,  and  what  followed  is  like  a  dream.  I  know  that 
when  the  speeches  were  done,  Marjie  went  forward  with 
the  beautiful  banner  the  women  of  Springvale  had  made 
with  their  own  hands  for  this  Company,  I  could  not  hear 
her  words.  They  were  few  and  simple,  no  doubt,  for  she 
was  never  given  to  display.  But  I  remember  her 
white  dress  and  her  hair  parted  in  front  and  coiled  low  on 
her  neck.  I  remember  the  sweet  Madonna  face  of  the 
little  girl,  and  how  modestly  graceful  she  was.  I  remem- 
ber how  every  man  held  his  breath  as  she  came  up  to  the 
group  seated  on  the  stage,  how  pink  her  cheeks  were  and 
how  white  the  china  aster  bloom  nestling  against  the  rip- 
ples of  her  hair,  and  how  the  soldiers  cheered  that  flag 
and  its  bearer.  I  remember  Jean  Pahusca,  Indian-like, 
standing  motionless,  never  taking  his  eyes  from  Marjie's 
face.  It  was  that  flag  that  this  Company  followed  in  its 
awful  charge  up  Missionary  Ridge.  And  it  was  Irving 
Whately  who  kept  it  aloft,  the  memory  of  his  daughter 
making  it  doubly  sacred  to  him. 

And  then  came  the  good-byes.  Marjie's  father  gripped 
my  hand,  and  his  voice  was  full  of  tears. 

"  Take  care  of  them,  Phil.  I  have  no  son  to  guard  my 

67 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

home,  and  if  we  never  come  back  you  will  not  let  harm 
come  to  them.  You  will  let  me  feel  when  I  am  far  away 
that  you  are  shielding  my  little  girl  from  evil,  won't  you, 
Phil?" 

I  clenched  his  hand  in  mine.  "  You  know  I  '11  do  that, 
Mr.  Whately."  I  stood  up  to  my  full  height,  young, 
broad-shouldered,  and  muscular. 

"  It  will  be  easier  for  me,  Phil,  to  know  you  are  here." 

I  understood  him.  Mrs.  Whately  was,  of  all  the  women 
I  knew,  least  able  to  do  for  herself.  Marjie  was  like  her 
father,  and,  save  for  her  fear  of  Indians,  no  Kansas  girl 
was  ever  more  capable  and  independent.  It  has  been  my 
joy  that  this  father  trusted  me.  The  flag  his  daughter  put 
into  his  hands  that  day  was  his  shroud  at  Chattanooga, 
and  his  last  moments  were  happier  for  the  thought  of  his 
little  girl  in  my  care. 

Aunt  Candace  and  I  walked  home  together  after  we  had 
waved  the  last  good-byes  to  the  soldiers.  From  our  door- 
way up  on  Cliff  Street  we  watched  that  line  of  men  grow 
dim  and  blend  at  last  into  the  eastern  horizon's  purple 
bound.  When  I  turned  then  and  looked  down  at  the 
town  beyond  the  slope,  it  seemed  to  me  that  upon  me 
alone  rested  the  burden  of  its  protection.  Driven  deep 
in  my  boyish  soul  was  the  sense  of  the  sacredness  of  these 
homes,  and  of  a  man's  high  duty  to  keep  harm  from 
them.  My  father  had  gone  out  to  battle,  not  alone  to 
set  free  an  enslaved  race,  but  to  make  whole  and  strong 
a  nation  whose  roots  are  in  the  homes  it  defends.  So  I, 
left  to  fill  his  place,  must  be  the  valiant  defender  of  the 
defenceless.  Such  moments  of  exaltation  come  to  the 
young  soul,  and  by  such  ideals  a  life  is  squared. 

That  evening  our  little  crowd  of  boys  strolled  out  on 
the  west  prairie.  The  sunset  deepened  to  the  rich  after- 
glow, and  all  the  soft  shadows  of  evening  began  to  unfold 

68 


A     GOOD     INDIAN 

about  us.  In  that  quiet,  sacred  time,  standing  out  on  the 
wide  prairie,  with  the  great  crystal  dome  above  us,  and 
the  landscape,  swept  across  by  the  free  winds  of  heaven, 
unrolled  in  all  its  dreamy  beauty  about  us,  our  little  com- 
pany gripped  hands  and  swore  our  fealty  to  the  Stars 
and  Stripes.  And  then  and  there  we  gave  sacred  pledge 
and  promise  to  stand  by  one  another  and  to  give  our  lives 
if  need  be  for  the  protection  and  welfare  of  the  homes  of 
Springvale. 

Busy  days  followed  the  going  of  the  soldiers.  Some- 
how the  gang  of  us  who  had  idled  away  the  summer 
afternoons  in  the  sandbar  shallows  beyond  the  Deep 
Hole  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  into  young  men  who 
must  not  neglect  school  nor  business  duties.  Awkwardly 
enough  but  earnestly  we  strove  to  keep  Springvale  a 
pushing,  prosperous  community,  and  while  our  efforts 
were  often  ludicrous,  the  manliness  of  purpose  had  its 
effect.  It  gave  us  breadth,  this  purpose,  and  broke  up 
our  narrow  prejudices.  I  believe  in  those  first  months 
I  would  have  suffered  for  the  least  in  Springvale  as  readily 
as  for  the  greatest.  Even  Lettie  Conlow,  whose  father 
kept  on  shoeing  horses  as  though  there  were  no  civil 
strife  in  the  nation,  found  such  favor  with  me  as  she 
had  never  found  before.  I  know  now  it  was  only  a  boy's 
patriotic  foolishness,  but  who  shall  say  it  was  ignoble 
in  its  influence?  Marjie  was  my  especial  charge.  That 
Fall  I  did  not  retire  at  night  until  I  had  run  down  to  the 
bushes  and  given  my  whistle,  and  had  seen  her  window 
light  waver  a  good-night  answer,  and  I  knew  she  was 
safe.  I  was  not  her  only  guardian,  however.  One  crisp 
autumn  night  there  was  no  response  to  my  call,  and  I 
sat  down  on  the  rocky  outcrop  of  the  steep  hill  to  await 
the  coming  of  her  light  in  the  window.  It  was  a  clear 
starlight  night,  and  I  had  no  thought  of  being  unseen  as 

69 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

I  was  quietly  watching.  Presently,  up  through  the  bushes 
a  dark  form  slid.  It  did  not  stand  erect  when  the  street 
was  reached,  but  crawled  with  head  up  and  alert  in  the 
deeper  shadow  of  the  bluff  side  of  the  road.  I  knew 
instinctively  that  it  was  Jean  Pahusca,  and  that  he  had 
not  been  expecting  me  to  be  there  after  my  call  and  had 
failed  to  notice  me  in  his  eagerness  to  creep  unseen  down 
the  slope.  Sometimes  in  these  later  years  in  a  great  foot- 
ball game  I  have  watched  the  Haskell  Indians  crawling 
swiftly  up  and  down  the  side-lines  following  the  surge 
of  the  players  on  the  gridiron,  and  I  always  think  of  Jean 
as  he  crept  down  the  hill  that  night.  It  was  late  October 
and  the  frost  was  glistening,  but  I  pulled  off  my  boots 
in  a  moment  and  silently  followed  the  fellow.  Inside 
the  fence  near  Marjie's  window  was  a  big  circle  of  lilac 
bushes,  transplanted  years  ago  from  the  old  Ohio  home 
of  the  Whatelys.  Inside  this  clump  Jean  crept,  and  I 
knew  by  the  quiet  crackle  of  twigs  and  dead  leaves  he 
was  making  his  bed  there.  My  first  thought  was  to 
drag  him  out  and  choke  him.  And  then  my  better  judg- 
ment prevailed.  I  slipped'  away  to  find  O'mie  for  a 
council. 

"  Phil,  I  'd  like  to  kill  him  wid  a  hoe,  same  as  Marjie 
did  that  other  rattlesnake  that  had  Jim  Conlow  charmed 
an'  flutterin*  toward  his  pisen  fangs,  only  we  'd  better 
wait  a  bit.  By  Saint  Patrick,  Philip,  we  can't  hang  up 
his  hide  yet  awhoile.  I  know  what  the  baste  *s  up  to 
annyhow." 

"  Well,  what  is  it?  "  I  queried  eagerly. 

"  He  's  bein'  a  good  Injun  he  is,  an*  he 's  got  a  crude 
sort  o'  notion  he  's  protectin'  that  dear  little  bird.  She 
may  be  scared  o'  him,  an*  he  knows  it ;  but  bedad,  I  'd 
not  want  to  be  the  border  ruffian  that  went  prowlin'  in 
there  uninvited;  would  you?" 

70 


A     GOOD     INDIAN 

"  Well,  he 's  a  dear  trusty  old  Fido  of  a  watchdog, 
O'mie.  We  will  take  Father  Le  Claire's  word,  and  keep 
an  eye  on  him  though.  He  will  sleep  where  he  will  sleep, 
but  we  '11  see  if  the  sight  of  water  affects  him  any.  A 
dog  of  his  breed  may  be  subject  to  rabies.  You  can't 
always  trust  even  a  '  good  Injun.' " 

After  that  I  watched  for  Jean's  coming  and  followed  him 
to  his  lilac  bed,  a  half-savage,  half-educated  Indian  brave, 
foolishly  hoping  to  win  a  white  girl  for  his  own. 

All  that  Fall  Jean  never  missed  a  night  from  the  lilac 
bush.  As  long  as  he  persisted  in  passing  the  dark  hours 
so  near  to  the  Whately  home  my  burden  of  anxiety  and 
responsibility  was  doubled.  In  silent  faithfulness  he  kept 
sentinel  watch.  I  dared  not  tell  Marjie,  for  I  knew  it 
would  fill  her  nights  with  terror,  and  yet  I  feared  her 
accidental  discovery  of  his  presence.  Jean  was  doing 
more  than  this,  however.  His  promise  to  be  good  seemed 
to  belie  Father  Le  Claire's  warning.  In  and  out  of  the 
village  all  that  winter  he  went,  orderly,  at  times  even 
affable,  quietly  refusing  every  temptation  to  drunk- 
enness. "  A  good  Indian "  he  was,  even  to  the  point 
where  O'mie  and  I  wondered  if  we  might  not  have  been 
wrong  in  our  judgment  of  him.  He  was  growing  hand- 
somer too.  He  stood  six  feet  in  his  moccasins,  stalwart 
as  a  giant,  with  grace  in  every  motion.  Somehow  he 
seemed  more  like  a  picturesque  Gipsy,  a  sort  of  semi-civil- 
ized grandee,  than  an  Indian  of  the  Plains.  There  was 
a  dominant  courtliness  in  his  manner  and  his  bearing 
was  kingly.  People  spoke  kindly  of  him.  Regularly  he 
took  communion  in  the  little  Catholic  chapel  at  the  south 
edge  of  town  on  the  Kaw  trail.  Quietly  but  persistently 
he  was  winning  his  way  to  universal  favor.  Only  the 
Irish  lad  and  I  kept  our  counsel  and  waited. 

After  the  bitterly  cold  New  Year's  Day  of  '63  the  Indian 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

forsook  the  lilac  bush  for  a  time.  But  I  knew  he  never 
lost  track  of  Marjie's  coming  and  going.  Every  hour  of 
the  day  or  night  he  could  have  told  just  where  she  was. 
We  followed  him  down  the  river  sometimes  at  night,  and 
lost  him  in  the  brush  this  side  the  Hermit's  Cave.  We 
did  not  know  that  this  was  a  mere  trick  to  deceive  us. 
To  make  sure  of  him  we  should  have  watched  the  west 
prairie  and  gone  up  the  river  for  his  real  landing  place. 
How  he  lived  I  do  not  know.  An  Indian  can  live  on  air 
and  faith  in  a  promise,  or  hatred  of  a  foe.  At  last  he 
lulled  even  our  suspicion  to  sleep. 

"  Ask  the  priest  what  to  do,"  I  suggested  to  O'mie 
when  we  grew  ashamed  of  our  spying.  "  They  are  to- 
gether so  much  the  rascal  looks  and  walks  like  him.  See 
him  on  annuity  day  and  tell  him  we  feel  like  chicken 
thieves  and  kidnappers." 

O'mie  obeyed  me  to  the  letter,  and  ended  with  the 
query  to  the  good  Father: 

"  Now  phwat  should  a  couple  of  young  sleuth-hounds 
do  wid  such  a  dacent  good  Injun?  " 

Father  Le  Claire's  reply  stunned  the  Irish  boy. 

"  He  just  drew  himself  up  a  mile  high  an*  more,"  O'mie 
related  to  me,  "  just  stood  up  like  the  angel  av  the  flamin' 
sword,  an'  his  eyes  blazed  a  black,  consumin'  fire.  *  Watch 
him,'  says  the  praist,  '  for  God's  sake,  watch  him.  Don't 
ask  me  again  phwat  to  do.  I  've  told  you  twice.  Thirty 
years  have  I  lived  and  labored  with  his  kind.  I  know 
them.'  An'  then,"  O'mie  went  on,  "he  put  both  arms 
around  me  an'  held  me  close  as  me  own  father  might 
have  done,  somewhere  back,  an'  turned  an'  left  me.  So 
there  's  our  orders.  Will  ye  take  'em?  " 

I  took  them,  but  my  mind  was  full  of  queries.  I  did  not 
trust  the  Indian,  and  yet  I  had  no  visible  reason  to  doubt 
his  sincerity. 

72 


CHAPTER    VI 
WHEN     THE    HEART    BEATS     YOUNG 

A  patch  of  green  sod  'neath  the  trees  brown  and  bare, 
A  smell  of  fresh  mould  on  the  mild  southern  air, 
A  twitter  of  bird  song,  a  flutter,  a  call, 
And  though  the  clouds  lower,  and  threaten  and  fall  — 
There's  Spring  in  my  heart! 

— BERTA  ALEXANDER  GARVEY. 

T  TT  THEN  the  prairies  blossomed  again,  and  the  Kansas 
V  V  springtime  was  in  its  daintiest  green,  when  a  blur 
of  pink  was  on  the  few  young  orchards  in  the  Neosho  Val- 
ley, and  the  cottonwoods  in  the  draws  were  putting  forth 
their  glittering  tender  leaves  —  in  that  sweetest  time  of 
all  the  year,  a  new  joy  came  to  me.  Most  girls  married 
at  sixteen  in  those  days,  and  were  grandmothers  at  thirty- 
five.  Marjie  was  no  longer  a  child.  No  sweeter  blossom 
of  young  womanhood  ever  graced  the  West.  All  Spring- 
vale  loved  her,  except  Lettie  Conlow.  And  Cam  Gentry 
summed  it  all  up  in  his  own  quaint  way,  brave  old  Cam 
fighting  all  the  battles  of  the  war  over  again  on  the 
veranda  of  the  Cambridge  House,  since  his  defective  range 
of  vision  kept  him  from  the  volunteer  service.  Watching 
Marjie  coming  down  the  street  one  spring  morning  Cam 
declared  solemnly : 

"  The  War  's  done  decided,  an*  the  Union  has  won.  A 
land  that  can  grow  girls  like  Marjory  Whately  's  got  the 
favorin'  smile  of  the  Almighty  upon  it." 

73 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

For  us  that  season  all  the  world  was  gay  and  all  the 
skies  were  opal-hued,  and  we  almost  forgot  sometimes 
that  there  could  be  sorrow  and  darkness  and  danger. 
Most  of  all  we  forgot  about  an  alien  down  in  the  Hermit's 
Cave,  "a  good  Indian"  turned  bad  in  one  brief  hour. 
Dear  are  the  memories  of  that  springtide.  Many  a  glori- 
ous April  have  I  seen  in  this  land  of  sunshine,  but  none 
has  ever  seemed  quite  like  that  one  to  me.  Nor  waving 
yellow  wheat,  nor  purple  alfalfa  bloom,  nor  ramparts  of 
dark  green  corn  on  well-tilled  land  can  hold  for  me  one- 
half  the  beauty  of  the  windswept  springtime  prairie.  No 
sweet  odor  of  new-ploughed  ground  can  rival  the  fragrance 
of  the  wild  grasses  in  their  waving  seas  of  verdure. 

We  were  coming  home  from  Red  Range  late  one  April 
day,  where  we  had  gone  to  a  last-day-of-school  affair. 
The  boys  and  girls  did  not  ride  in  a  group  now,  but  broke 
up  into  twos  and  twos  sauntering  slowly  homeward.  The 
tender  pink  and  green  of  the  landscape  with  the  April 
sunset  tinting  in  the  sky  overhead,  and  all  the  far  south 
and  west  stretching  away  into  limitless  waves  of  misty 
green  blending  into  the  amethyst  of  the  world's  far  bound, 
gave  setting  for  young  hearts  beating  in  tune  with  the 
year's  young  beauty. 

Tell  Mapleson  and  Lettie  had  been  with  Marjie  and 
me  for  a  time,  but  at  last  Tell  had  led  Lettie  far  away. 
When  we  reached  the  draw  beyond  the  big  cottonwood 
where  Jean  Pahusca  threw  us  into  such  disorder  on  that 
August  evening  the  year  before,  we  found  a  rank  pro- 
fusion of  spring  blossoms.  Leading  our  ponies  by  the 
bridle  rein  we  lingered  long  in  the  fragrant  draw,  gather- 
ing flowers  and  playing  like  two  children  among  them. 
At  length  Marjie  sat  down  on  the  sloping  ground  and 
deftly  wove  into  a  wreath  the  little  pink  blooms  of  some 
frail  wild  flower. 

74 


WHEN     THE     HEART     BEATS     YOUNG 

"  Come,  Phil,"  she  cried,  "  come,  crown  me  Queen  of 
May  here  in  April !  " 

I  was  as  tall  then  as  I  am  now,  and  Marjie  at  her  full 
height  came  only  to  my  shoulder.  I  stooped  to  lay  that 
dainty  string  of  blossoms  above  her  brow.  They  fell  into 
place  in  her  wavy  hair  and  nestled  there,  making  a  picture 
only  memory  can  keep.  The  air  was  very  sweet  and 
the  whole  prairie  about  the  little  draw  was  still  and  dewy. 
The  purple  twilight,  shot  through  with  sunset  coloring, 
made  an  exquisite  glory  overhead,  and  far  beyond  us.  It 
is  all  sacred  to  me  even  now,  this  moment  in  Love's  young 
dream.  I  put  both  my  hands  gently  against  her  fair 
round  cheeks  and  looked  down  her  into  her  brown  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Marjie,"  I  said  softly,  and  kissed  her  red  lips  just 
once. 

She  said  never  a  word  while  we  stood  for  a  moment,  a 
moment  we  never  forgot.  The  day's  last  gleam  of  gold 
swept  about  us,  and  the  ripple  of  a  bird's  song  in  the 
draw  beyond  the  bend  fell  upon  the  ear.  An  instant  later 
both  ponies  gave  a  sudden  start.  We  caught  their  bridle 
reins,  and  looked  for  the  cause.  Nothing  was  in  sight. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  rattlesnake  in  that  tall  grass, 
Phil,"  Marjie  exclaimed.  "  The  ponies  don't  like  snakes, 
and  they  don't  care  for  flowers." 

"  There  are  no  snakes  here,  Marjie.  This  is  the  garden 
of  Eden  without  the  Serpent,"  I  said  gayly. 

All  the  homeward  way  was  a  dream  of  joy.  We  forgot 
there  was  a  Civil  War;  that  this  was  a  land  of  aching 
hearts  and  dreary  homes,  and  bloodshed  and  suffering  and 
danger  and  hate.  We  were  young,  it  was  April  on  the 
prairies,  and  we  had  kissed  each  other  in  the  pink-wreathed 
shadows  of  the  twilight.  Oh,  it  was  good  to  live ! 

The  next  morning  O'mie  came  grinning  up  the  hill. 

"  Say,  Phil,  ye  know  I  cut  the  chape  Neosho  crowd  last 

75 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

evening  up  to  Rid  Range  fur  that  black-eyed  little  Irish 
girl  they  call  Kathleen.  So  I  came  home  afterwhoile  be- 
hind you,  not  carin'  to  contaminate  meself  wid  such  a  com- 
mon set  after  me  pleasant  company  at  Rid  Range." 

"  Well,  we  managed  to  pull  through  without  you,  O'mie, 
but  don't  let  it  happen  again.  It 's  too  hard  on  the  girls 
to  be  deprived  of  your  presence.  Do  be  more  considerate 
of  us,  my  lord." 

O'mie  grinned  more  broadly  than  ever. 
"  Well,  I  see  a  sight  worth  waitin'  fur  on  my  homeward 
jaunt  in  the  gloamin'." 

"What  was  it,  a  rattlesnake?" 

"Yes,  begorra,  it  was  just  that,  an'  worse.  You  re- 
member the  draw  this  side  of  the  big  cottonwood,  the 
one  where  the  'good  Injun'  come  at  us  last  August,  the 
time  he  got  knocked  sober  at  the  old  tepee  ring?  " 

I  gave  a  start  and  my  cheeks  grew  hot.  O'mie  pre- 
tended not  to  notice  me. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  just  as  I  came  beyont  that  ring 
on  this  side  and  dips  down  toward  the  draw  where  Jean 
come  from  when  he  was  aimin'  to  hang  a  certain  curly 
brown-haired  scalp  —  " 

A  thrill  of  horror  went  through  me  at  the  picture. 
"  Ye  need  n't  shiver.  Injuns  do  that ;  even  little  golden 
curls  from  babies'  heads.  You  an'  me  may  live  to  see  it, 
an'  kill  the  Injun  that  does  it,  yit.  Now  kape  quiet.  In 
this  draw  aforesaid,  just  like  a  rid  granite  gravestone  sat 
a  rid  granite  Injun,  '  a  good  Injun/  mind  you.  In  his 
hands  was  trailin'  a  broken  wreath  of  pink  blossoms,  an' 
near  as  an  Injun  can,  an'  a  Frenchman  can't,  he  was  lovin' 
'em  fondly.  My  appearance,  unannounced  by  me  foot- 
man, disconcerted  him  extramely.  He  rose  up  an'  he 
looked  a  mile  tall.  They  moved  some  clouds  over  a  little 
fur  his  head  up  there,"  pointing  toward  the  deep  blue 

76 


WHEN     THE    HEART     BEATS     YOUNG 

April  sky  where  white  cumulus  clouds  were  heaped,  "  an' 
his  eyes  was  one  blisterin'  grief,  an*  blazin'  hate.  He 
walks  off  proud  an*  erect,  but  some  like  a  wounded  bird 
too.  But  mostly  and  importantly,  remember,  and  renew 
your  watchfulness.  It 's  hate  an'  a  bad  Injun  now.  Mark 
my  words.  The  '  good  Injun '  went  out  last  night  wid 
the  witherin'  of  them  pink  flowers  lyin'  limp  in  his  cruel 
brown  hands." 

"But  whose  flower  wreath  could  it  have  been?"  I 
asked  carelessly. 

"  O,  phwat  difference !  Just  some  silly  girl  braided  'em 
up  to  look  sweet  for  some  silly  boy.  An'  maybe  he 
kissed  her  fur  it.  I  dunno.  Annyhow  she  lost  this  bauble, 
an'  looking  round  I  found  it  on  the  little  knoll  where 
maybe  she  sat  to  do  her  flower  wreathin'." 

He  held  up  an  old-fashioned  double  silver  scarf-pin,  the 
two  pins  held  together  by  a  short  silver  chain,  such  as 
shawls  were  fastened  with  in  those  days.  Marjie  had 
had  the  pin  in  the  light  scarf  she  carried  on  her  arm.  It 
must  have  slipped  out  when  she  laid  the  scarf  beside  her 
and  sat  down  to  make  the  wreath.  I  took  the  pin  from 
O'mie's  hand,  my  mind  clear  now  as  to  what  had  fright- 
ened the  ponies.  A  new  anxiety  grew  up  from  that  mo- 
ment. The  "  good  Indian  "  was  passing.  And  yet  I  was 
young  and  joyously  happy  that  day,  and  I  did  not  feel 
the  presence  of  danger  then. 

The  early  May  rains  following  that  April  were  such  as 
we  had  never  known  in  Kansas  before.  The  Neosho  be- 
came bank-full ;  then  it  spread  out  over  the  bottom  lands, 
flooding  the  wooded  valley,  creeping  up  and  up  towards 
the  bluffs.  It  raced  in  a  torrent  now,  and  the  song  of 
its  rippling  over  stony  ways  was  changed  to  the  roar  of 
many  waters,  rushing  headlong  down  the  valley.  On 
the  south  of  us  Fingal's  Creek  was  impassable.  Every 

77 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

draw  was  brimming  over,  and  the  smaller  streams  be- 
came rivers.  All  these  streams  found  their  way  to  the 
Neosho  and  gave  it  impetus  to  destroy  —  which  it  did,  tear- 
ing out  great  oaks  and  sending  them  swirling  and  plung- 
ing, in  its  swiftest  currents.  It  found  the  soft,  uncertain 
places  underneath  its  burden  of  waters  and  with  its  mil- 
lions of  unseen  hands  it  digged  and  scooped  and  shaped 
the  thing  anew.  When  at  last  the  waters  were  all  gone 
down  toward  the  sea  and  our  own  beautiful  river  was 
itself  again,  singing  its  happy  song  on  sunny  sands  and 
in  purple  shadows,  the  valley  contour  was  much  changed. 
To  the  boys  who  had  known  it,  foot  by  foot,  the  differ- 
ences would  have  been  most  marked.  Especially  would 
we  have  noted  the  change  about  the  Hermit's  Cave,  had 
not  that  Maytime  brought  its  burden  of  strife  to  us  all. 

That  was  the  black  year  of  the  Civil  War,  with  Mur- 
freesboro,  Chancellorsville,  Gettysburg,  Chattanooga  and 
Chickamauga  all  on  its  record.  Here  in  Kansas  the  minor 
tragedies  are  lost  in  the  great  horror  of  the  Quantrill  raid 
at  Lawrence.  But  the  constant  menace  of  danger,  and  the 
strain  of  the  thousand  ties  binding  us  to  those  from  every 
part  of  the  North  who  had  gone  out  to  battle,  filled  every 
day  with  its  own  care.  When  the  news  of  Chancellors- 
ville reached  us,  Cam  Gentry  sat  on  the  tavern  veranda 
and  wept. 

"  An'  to  think  of  me,  strong,  an*  able,  an*  longin*  to 
fight  for  the  Union,  shut  out  because  I  can  only  see  so 
far." 

"  But  Uncle  Cam,"  Dr.  Hemingway  urged,  "  Stonewall 
Jackson  was  killed  by  his  own  men  just  when  victory  was 
lost  to  us.  You  might  do  the  same  thing, —  kill  some 
man  the  country  needs.  And  I  believe,  too,  you  are  kept 
here  for  a  purpose.  Who  knows  how  soon  we  may  need 

78 


WHEN     THE    HEART     BEATS     YOUNG 

strong  men  in  this  town,  men  who  can  do  the  short-range 
work?  The  Lord  can  use  us  all,  and  your  place  is  here. 
Isn't  that  true,  Brother  Dodd?" 

I  was  one  of  the  group  on  the  veranda  steps  that  even- 
ing where  the  men  were  gathered  in  eager  discussion  of 
the  news  of  the  great  Union  loss  at  Chancellorsville, 
brought  that  afternoon  by  the  stage  from  Topeka.  I 
glanced  across  at  Dodd,  pastor  of  the  Methodist  Church 
South.  A  small,  secretive,  unsatisfactory  man,  he  seemed 
to  dole  out  the  gospel  grudgingly  always,  and  never  to 
any  outside  his  own  denomination. 

He  made  no  reply  and  Dr.  Hemingway  went  on :  "  We 
have  Philip  here,  and  I  'd  count  on  him  and  his  crowd 
against  the  worst  set  of  outlaws  that  ever  rode  across 
the  border.  Yet  they  need  your  head,  Uncle  Cam,  al- 
though their  arms  are  strong." 

He  patted  my  shoulder  kindly. 

"  We  need  you,  too,"  he  continued,  "  to  keep  us  cheered 
up.  When  the  Lord  says  to  some  of  us,  *  So  far  shalt 
thou  see,  and  no  farther,'  he  may  give  to  that  same 
brother  the  power  to  scatter  sunshine  far  and  wide.  Oh, 
we  need  you,  Brother  Gentry,  to  make  us  laugh  if  for 
nothing  else." 

Uncle  Cam  chuckled.  He  was  built  for  chuckling,  and 
we  all  laughed  with  him,  except  Mr.  Dodd.  I  caught  a 
sneer  on  his  face  in  the  moment. 

Presently  Father  Le  Claire  and  Jean  Pahusca  joined 
the  group.  I  had  not  seen  the  latter  since  the  day  of 
O'mie's  warning.  Indian  as  he  was,  I  could  see  a  change 
in  his  impassive  face.  It  made  me  turn  cold,  me,  to 
whom  fear  was  a  stranger.  Father  Le  Claire,  too,  was 
not  like  himself.  Self-possessed  always,  with  his  native 
French  grace  and  his  inward  spiritual  calm,  this  evening 

79 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

he  seemed  to  be  holding  himself  by  a  mighty  grip,  rather 
than  by  that  habitual  self-mastery  that  kept  his  life  in 
poise. 

I  tell  these  impressions  as  a  man,  and  I  analyze  them 
as  a  man,  but,  boy  as  I  was,  I  felt  them  then  with  keenest 
power.  Again  the  likeness  of  Indian  and  priest  possessed 
me,  but  raised  no  query  within  me.  In  form,  in  gait  and 
especially  in  the  shape  of  the  head  and  the  black  hair 
about  their  square  foreheads  they  were  as  like  as  father 
and  son.  Just  once  I  caught  Jean's  eye.  The  eye  of  a 
rattlesnake  would  have  been  more  friendly.  O'mie  was 
right.  The  "good  Indian"  had  vanished.  What  had 
come  in  his  stead  I  was  soon  to  know.  But  withal  I  could 
but  admire  the  fine  physique  of  this  giant. 

While  the  men  were  still  full  of  the  Union  disaster,  two 
horsemen  came  riding  up  to  the  tavern  oak.  Their  horses 
were  dripping  wet.  They  had  come  up  the  trail  from  the 
southwest,  where  the  draws  were  barely  fordable.  Stran- 
gers excited  no  comment  in  a  town  on  the  frontier.  The 
trail  was  always  full  of  them  coming  and  going.  We 
hardly  noted  that  for  ten  days  Springvale  had  not  been 
without  them. 

"  Come  in,  gentlemen,"  called  Cam.  "  Here,  Dollie, 
take  care  of  these  friends.  O'mie,  take  their  horses." 

They  passed  inside  and  the  talk  outside  went  eagerly 
on. 

"  Father  Le  Claire,  how  do  the  Injuns  feel  about  this 
fracas  now?  "  inquired  Tell  Mapleson. 

The  priest  spoke  carefully. 

"  We  always  counsel  peace.  You  know  we  do  not  be- 
long to  either  faction." 

His  smile  was  irresistible,  and  the  most  partisan  of  us 
could  not  dislike  him  that  he  spoke  for  neither  North  nor 
South. 

80 


WHEN    THE    HEART     BEATS     YOUNG 

"  But,"  Tell  persisted,  "how  do  the  Injuns  themselves 
feel?" 

Tell  seemed  to  have  lost  his  usual  insight,  else  he  could 
have  seen  that  quick,  shrewd,  penetrating  glance  of  the 
good  Father's  reading  him  through  and  through. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  the  Mission,"  he  said.  "  The 
Osages  are  always  loyal  to  the  Union.  The  Verdigris 
River  was  too  high  for  me  to  hear  from  the  villages  in  the 
southwest." 

Tell  was  listening  eagerly.  So  also  were  the  two  stran- 
gers who  stood  in  the  doorway  now.  If  the  priest  noted 
this  he  gave  no  sign.  Mr.  Dodd  spoke  here  for  the  first 
time. 

"  Well,"  he  said  in  his  pious  intonation,  "  if  the  Osages 
are  loyal,  that  clears  Jean  here.  He 's  an  Osage,  is  n't 
he?" 

Jean  made  no  reply;  neither  did  Le  Claire,  and  Tell 
Mapleson  turned  casually  to  the  strangers,  engaging  them 
in  conversation. 

"  We  shall  want  our  horses  at  four  sharp  in  the  morn- 
ing," one  of  the  two  came  out  to  say  to  Cam.  "  We  have 
a  long  hard  day  before  us." 

"  At  your  service,"  answered  Cam.  "  O'mie,  take  the 
order  in  your  head." 

"Is  that  the  biggest  hostler  you've  got?"  looking  con- 
temptuously at  little  O'mie  standing  beside  me.  "  If  you 
Kansas  folks  weren't  such  damned  abolitionists  you'd 
have  some  able-bodied  niggers  to  do  your  work  right." 

O'mie  winked  at  me  and  gave  a  low  whistle.  Neither 
the  wink  nor  the  whistle  was  lost  on  the  speaker,  who 
frowned  darkly  at  the  boy. 

Cam  squinted  up  at  the  men  good-naturedly.  "  Them 
horses  dangerous?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  they  are,"  the  stranger  replied.  "  Can  we  have 
6  81 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRA'IRIE 

a  room  downstairs?  We  want  to  go  to  bed  early.  We 
have  had  a  hard  day." 

"  You  can  begin  to  say  your  '  Now  I  lay  me*  right  away 
in  here  if  you  like,"  and  the  landlord  led  the  way  into  a 
room  off  the  veranda.  One  of  the  two  lingered  outside  in 
conversation  with  Mapleson  for  a  brief  time. 

"  Come,  go  home  with  me,  O'mie,"  I  said  later,  when 
the  crowd  began  to  thin  out. 

"  Not  me,"  he  responded.  "  Did  n't  ye  hear, '  four  A.  M. 
sharp '  ?  It 's  me  flat  on  me  bed  till  the  dewy  morn  an* 
three-thirty  av  it.  Them 's  vicious  horses.  An*  they  '11 
be  to  curry  clane  airly.  Phil,"  he  added  in  a  lower  voice, 
"  this  town  's  a  little  overrun  wid  strangers  wid  no  par- 
tic'lar  business  av  their  own,  an*  we  don't  need  'em  in 
ours.  For  one  private  citizen,  I  don't  like  it.  The  biggest 
one  of  them  two  men  in  there  's  named  Yeager,  an'  he's 
been  here  three  toimes  lately,  stayin'  only  a  few  hours 
each  toime." 

O'mie  looked  so  little  to  me  this  evening !  I  had  hardly 
noted  how  the  other  boys  had  outgrown  him. 

"  You  're  not  very  big  for  a  horseman  after  all,  my  son, 
but  you  're  grit  clear  through.  You  may  do  something 
yet  the  big  fellows  could  n't  do,"  I  said  affectionately. 

He  was  Irish  to  the  bone,  and  never  could  entirely  mas- 
ter his  brogue,  but  we  had  no  social  caste  lines,  and 
Springvale  took  him  at  face  value,  knowing  his  worth. 

At  Marjie's  gate  I  stopped  to  make  sure  everything 
was  all  right.  Somehow  when  I  knew  the  Indian  was 
in  town  I  could  never  feel  safe  for  her.  She  hurried  out 
in  response  to  my  call. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  to-night,  Phil,"  she  said,  a 
little  tremulously.  "  I  wish  father  were  here.  Do  you 
think  he  is  safe?" 

She  was  leaning  on  the  gate,  looking  eagerly  into  my 

82 


WHEN    THE     HEART     BEATS     YOUNG 

eyes.  The  shadows  of  the  May  twilight  were  deepening 
around  us,  and  Marjie's  white  face  looked  never  so  sweet 
to  me  as  now,  in  her  dependence  on  my  assurance. 

"  I  'm  sure  Mr.  Whately  is  all  right.  It  is  the  bad  news 
that  gets  here  first.  I  'm  so  glad  our  folks  were  n't  at 
Chancellorsville." 

"  But  they  may  be  in  as  dreadful  a  battle  soon.  Oh, 
Phil,  I'm  so  —  what?  lonesome  and  afraid  to-night.  I 
wish  father  could  come  home." 

It  was  not  like  Marjie,  who  had  been  a  dear  brave  girl, 
always  cheering  her  dependent  mother  and  hopefully  ex- 
pecting the  best.  To-night  there  swept  over  me  anew 
that  sense  of  the  duty  every  man  owes  to  the  home.  It 
was  an  intense  feeling  then.  Later  it  was  branded  with 
fire  into  my  consciousness.  I  put  one  of  my  big  hands 
over  her  little  white  hand  on  the  gate. 

"  Marjie,"  I  said  gently,  "  I  promised  your  father  I 
would  let  no  harm  come  to  you.  Don't  be  afraid,  little 
girl.  You  can  trust  me.  Until  he  comes  back  I  will 
take  care  of  you." 

The  twilight  was  sweet  and  dewy  and  still.  About  the 
house  the  shadows  were  darkening.  I  opened  the  gate, 
and  drawing  her  hand  through  my  arm,  I  went  up  the 
walk  with  her. 

"  Is  that  the  lilac  that  is  so  fragrant?  "  I  caught  a  faint 
perfume  in  the  air. 

"Yes,"  sadly,  "what  there  is  of  it."  And  then  she 
laughed  a  little.  "  That  miserable  O'mie  came  up  here 
the  day  after  we  went  to  Red  Range  and  persuaded 
mother  to  cut  it  all  down  except  one  straight  stick  of  a 
bush.  He  told  her  it  was  dying,  and  that  it  needed 
pruning,  and  I  don't  know  what.  And  you  know  mother. 
I  was  over  at  the  Anderson's,  and  when  I  came  home  the 
whole  clump  was  gone.  I  dreamed  the  other  night  that 

83 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

somebody  was  hiding  in  there.  It  was  all  dead  in  the 
middle.  Do  you  remember  when  we  played  hide-and-seek 
in  there?" 

"  I  never  forget  anything  you  do,  Marjie,"  I  answered ; 
"  but  I  'm  glad  the  bushes  are  thinned  out." 

She  broke  off  some  plumes  of  the  perfumy  blossoms. 
"Take  those  to  Aunt  Candace.  Tell  her  I  sent  them. 
Don't  let  her  think  you  stole  them,"  she  was  herself  now, 
and  her  fear  was  gone. 

"  May  I  take  something  else  to  Aunt  Candace,  too, 
Marjie?" 

"  What  else?  "  She  looked  up  innocently  into  my  face. 
We  were  at  the  door-step  now. 

"  A  good-night  kiss,  Marjie." 

"  I  '11  see  her  myself  about  that,"  she  replied  mischie- 
vously but  confusedly,  pushing  me  away.  I  knew  her 
cheek  was  flushed  as  my  own,  and  I  caught  her  hand  and 
held  it  fast. 

"  Good-night,  Phil."  That  sweet  voice  of  hers  I  could 
not  disobey.  In  a  moment  I  was  gone,  happy  and  young 
and  confident.  I  could  have  fought  the  whole  Confed- 
erate army  for  the  sake  of  this  girl  left  in  my  care  —  my 
very  own  guardianship. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  FORESHADOWING  OF  PERIL 

O  clear-eyed  Faith,  and  Patience  thou 

So  calm  and  strong! 

Lend  strength  to  weakness,  teach  us  how 
The  sleepless  eyes  of  God  look  through 

This  night  of  wrong! 

—  WHITTIEE. 

WHILE  these  May  days  were  slipping  by,  strange 
history  was  making  itself  in  Kansas.  I  marvel 
now,  as  I  recall  the  slender  bonds  that  stayed  us  from 
destruction,  that  we  ever  dared  to  do  our  part  in  that 
record-building  day.  And  I  rejoice  that  we  did  not  know 
the  whole  peril  that  menaced  us  through  those  uncertain 
hours,  else  we  should  have  lost  all  courage. 

Father  Le  Claire  held  himself  neutral  to  the  North  and 
the  South,  and  was  sometimes  distrusted  by  both  factions 
in  our  town;  but  he  went  serenely  on  his  way,  biding 
his  time  patiently.  At  sunrise  on  the  morning  after  O'mie 
had  surprised  Jean  Pahusca  with  Marjie's  wreath  of  faded 
blossoms  held  caressingly  in  his  brown  hands,  Le  Claire 
met  him  in  the  little  chapel.  What  he  confessed  led  the 
priest  to  take  him  at  once  to  the  Osages  farther  down 
on  the  Neosho. 

"  I  had  hoped  to  persuade  Jean  to  stay  at  the  Mission," 
Le  Claire  said  afterwards.  "  He  is  the  most  intelligent 
one  of  his  own  tribe  I  have  ever  known,  and  he  could  be 
invaluable  to  the  Osages,  but  he  would  not  stay  away 

85 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

from  Springvale.  And  I  thought  it  best  to  come  back 
with  him." 

The  good  man  did  not  say  why  he  thought  it  best  to  keep 
Jean  under  his  guardianship.  Few  people  in  Springvale 
would  have  dreamed  how  dangerous  a  foe  we  had  in  this 
superbly  built,  picturesque,  handsome  Indian. 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  after  his  return,  the 
priest  was  roused  from  a  sound  sleep  by  O'mie.  A  storm 
had  broken  over  the  town  just  after  midnight.  When  it 
had  spent  itself  and  roared  off  down  the  valley,  the  rain 
still  fell  in  torrents,  and  O'mie's  clothes  were  dripping 
when  he  rushed  into  Le  Claire's  room. 

"  For  the  love  av  Heaven,"  he  cried,  "  they 's  a  plot 
so  pizen  I  must  git  out  of  me  constitution  quick.  They  're 
tellin'  it  up  to  Conlow's  shop.  Them  two  strangers,  Yea- 
ger  and  his  pal,  that's  s'posed  to  be  sleepin'  now  to  get 
an  airly  start,  put  out  'fore  midnight  for  a  prowl  an'  found 
theirsilves  right  up  to  Conlow's.  An'  I  wint  along  be- 
hind 'em  —  respectful,"  O'mie  grinned;  "an'  there  was 
Mapleson  an'  Conlow  an'  the  holy  Dodd,  mind  ye.  M. 
E.  South 's  his  rock  o'  defence.  An'  Jean  was  there 
too.  They  're  promisin'  him  somethin',  the  strangers  air. 
Tell  an'  Conlow  seemed  to  kind  o'  dissent,  but  give  in 
finally." 

"Is  it  whiskey?"  asked  the  priest. 

"  No,  no.  Tell  says  he  can't  have  nothin'  from  the 
'  Last  Chance.'  Says  the  old  Roman  Catholic  '11  fix  his 
agency  job  at  Washington  if  he  lets  Jean  get  drunk.  It 's 
somethin'  else;  an'  Tell  wants  to  git  aven  with  you,  so 
he  gives  in." 

The  priest's  face  grew  pale. 

"  Well,  go  on." 

"There's  a  lot 'of  carrion  birds  up  there  I  never  see  in 
this  town.  Just  lit  in  there  somehow.  But  here  's  the 

86 


THE    FORESHADOWING    OF    PERIL 

schame.  The  Confederates  has  it  all  planned,  an*  they  're 
doin'  it  now  to  league  together  all  the  Injun  tribes  av  the 
Southwest.  They's  more  'n  twinty  commissioned  offi- 
cers, Rebels,  ivery  son  av  'em,  now  on  their  way  to  meet 
the  chiefs  av  these  tribes.  An'  all  the  Kansas  settlements 
down  the  river  is  to  be  fell  upon  by  the  Ridskins,  an' 
nobody  to  be  spared.  Wid  them  Missouri  raiders  on  the 
east  and  the  Injuns  in  the  southwest  where  '11  anybody 
down  there  be,  begorra,  betwixt  two  sich  grindin'  mill- 
stones? I  couldn't  gather  it  all  in,  ye  see.  I  was  up 
on  a  ladder  peeking  in  through  a  long  hole  laid  down  side- 
ways. But  that 's  the  main  f'ature  av  the  rumpus. 
They  're  countin'  big  on  the  Osages  becase  the  Gov'mint 
trusts  'em  to  do  scout  duty  down  beyont  Humboldt,  and 
Jean  says  the  Osages  is  sure  to  join  'em.  Said  it  is 
whispered  round  at  the  Mission  now.  And  phwat  's  to  be 
nixt?" 

Father  Le  Claire  listened  intently  to  O'mie's  hurried 
recital.  Then  he  rose  up  before  the  little  Irishman,  and 
taking  both  of  the  boy's  hands  in  his,  he  said :  "  O'mie, 
you  must  do  your  part  now." 

"Phwat  can  I  do?  Show  me,  an'  bedad,  I'll  do  it." 
"  You  will  keep  this  to  yourself,  because  it  would  only 
make  trouble  if  it  were  repeated  now,  and  we  may  outwit 
the  whole  scheme  without  any  unnecessary  anxiety  and 
fright.  Also,  you  must  keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open  to 
all  that 's  done  and  said  here.  Don't  let  anything  escape 
you.  If  I  can  get  across  the  Neosho  this  morning  I  can 
reach  the  Mission  in  time  to  keep  the  Osages  from  the 
plot,  and  maybe  break  it  up.  Then  I  '11  come  back  here, 
They  might  need  me  if  Jean " —  he  did  not  finish  the 
sentence.  "  In  two  days  I  can  do  everything  needful ; 
while  if  the  word  were  started  here  now,  it  might  lead  to 
a  Rebel  uprising,  and  you  would  be  outnumbered  by  the 

87 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Copperheads  here,  backed  by  the  Fingal's  Creek  crowd. 
You  could  do  nothing  in  an  open  riot." 

"  I  comprehend  ye,"  said  O'mie.  "  It 's  iverything  into 
me  eyes  an'  ears  an*  nothin'  out  av  me  mouth." 

"  Meanwhile/'  the  priest  spoke  affectionately,  "  you 
must  be  strong,  my  son,  to  choose  the  better  part.  If  it 's 
life  or  death, —  O  God,  that  human  life  should  be  held  so 
cheap !  —  if  it 's  left  to  you  to  choose  who  must  be  the 
sacrifice,  you  will  choose  right.  I  can  trust  you.  Re- 
member, in  two  or  three  days  at  most,  I  can  be  back ;  but 
keep  your  watch,  especially  of  Jean.  He  means  mis- 
chief, but  I  cannot  stay  here  now,  much  less  take  him 
with  me.  He  would  not  go." 

So  it  happened  that  Father  Le  Claire  hurried  away  in 
the  darkness  and  the  driving  rain,  and  at  a  fearful  risk 
swam  his  horse  across  the  Neosho,  and  hastened  with 
all  speed  to  the  Mission. 

When  that  midnight  storm  broke  over  the  town,  on  the 
night  when  O'mie  followed  the  strangers  and  found  out 
their  plot,  I  helped  Aunt  Candace  to  fasten  the  windows 
and  make  sure  against  it  until  I  was  too  wide  awake  to 
go  to  bed.  I  sat  down  by  my  window,  in  the  lightning 
flashes  watching  the  rain,  wind-driven  across  the  land- 
scape. The  night  was  pitch  black.  In  all  the  southwest 
there  was  only  one  light,  a  sullen  red  bar  of  flame  that 
came  up  from  Conlow's  forge  fire.  I  watched  it  indiffer- 
ently at  first  because  it  was  there.  Then  I  began  to 
wonder  why  it  should  gleam  there  red  and  angry  at  this 
dead  hour  of  darkness.  As  I  watched,  the  light  flared 
up  as  though  it  were  fanned  into  a  blaze.  Then  it  began 
to  blink  and  I  knew  some  one  was  inside  the  shop.  It 
was  blotted  out  for  a  time,  then  it  glowed  again,  as  if 
there  were  many  passing  and  re-passing.  I  wondered 
what  it  could  all  mean  in  such  an  hour,  on  such  a  night 

88 


THE    FORESHADOWING    OF    PERIL 

as  this.  Then  I  thought  of  old  Conlow's  children,  of 
"  Possum  "  in  his  weak,  good-natured  homeliness,  and  of 
Lettie.  How  I  disliked  her,  and  wished  she  would  keep 
out  of  my  way,  which  she  never  would  do.  Her  face  was 
clear  to  me,  there  in  the  dark.  It  grew  malicious;  then 
it  hardened  into  wickedness,  and  I  slipped  from  watching 
into  a  drowsy,  half-waking  sleep  in  my  chair.  The  red 
bar  of  light  became  the  flame  of  cannon  on  a  battlefield, 
I  saw  our  men  in  a  life-and-death  struggle  with  the  enemy 
on  a  rough,  wild  mountainside.  Everywhere  my  father 
was  leading  them  on,  and  by  his  side  Irving  Whately 
bore  the  Springvale  flag  aloft.  And  then  beside  me  lay 
the  color-bearer  with  white,  agonized  face,  pleading  with 
me.  His  words  were  ringing  in  my  ears,  "  Take  care 
of  Marjie,  Phil;  keep  her  from  harm." 

I  woke  with  a  start,  stiff  and  shivering.  With  one 
half-dazed  glance  at  the  black  night  and  that  sullen  tell- 
tale light  below  me,  I  groped  my  way  to  my  bed  and  slept 
then  the  dreamless  sleep  of  vigorous  youth. 

The  rain  continued  for  many  hours.  Yeager  and  his 
company  could  not  get  away  from  town  on  account  of 
the  booming  Neosho.  Also  several  other  strange  men 
seemed  to  have  rained  down  from  nobody  asked  where, 
and  while  the  surface  of  affairs  was  smooth  there  was 
a  troubled  undercurrent.  Nobody  seemed  to  know  just 
what  to  expect,  yet  a  sense  of  calamity  pervaded  the  air. 
Meanwhile  the  rain  poured  down  in  intermittent  tor- 
rents. On  the  second  evening  of  this  miserable  gloom 
I  strolled  down  to  the  tavern  stables  to  find  O'mie.  Bud 
and  John  Anderson  and  both  the  Mead  boys  were  there, 
sprawled  out  on  the  hay.  O'mie  sat  on  a  keg  in  the 
wagon  way,  and  they  were  all  discussing  affairs  of  State 
like  sages.  I  joined  in  and  we  fought  the  Civil  War 
to  a  finish  in  half  an  hour.  In  all  the  "solid  North" 

89 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

there  was  no  more  loyal  company  on  that  May  night 
than  that  group  of  brawny  young  fellows  full  of  the  fire 
of  patriotism,  who  swore  anew  their  eternal  allegiance 
to  the  Union. 

"  It 's  a  crime  and  a  disgrace,"  declared  Dave  Mead, 
"  that  because  we  're  only  boys  we  can't  go  to  the  War, 
and  every  one  of  us,  except  O'mie  here,  muscled  like 
oxen;  while  older,  weaker  men  are  being  shot  down  at 
Chancellorsville  or  staggering  away  from  Bull  Run." 

"  O'mie  'th  got  the  thtuff  in  him  though.  I  'd  back 
him  againth  David  and  Goliath,"  Bud  Anderson  insisted. 

"  Yes,  or  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  or  some  other  Bible 
characters,"  observed  Bill  Mead.  "  You  'd  better  join 
the  Methodist  Church  South,  Bud,  and  let  old  Dodd  labor 
with  you." 

Then  O'mie  spoke  gravely: 

"  Boys,  we  've  got  a  civil  war  now  in  our  middust. 
Don't  ask  me  how  I  know.  The  feller  that  clanes  the 
horses  around  the  tavern  stables,  trust  him  fur  findin' 
which  way  the  Neosho  runs,  aven  if  he  is  small  an'  in- 
significant av  statoor.  I  've  seen  an*  heard  too  much  in 
these  two  dirty  wet  days." 

He  paused,  and  there  came  into  his  eyes  a  pathetic 
pleading  look  as  of  one  who  sought  protection.  It  gave 
place  instantly  to  a  fearless,  heroic  expression  that  has 
been  my  inspiration  in  many  a  struggle.  I  know  now 
how  he  longed  to  tell  us  all  he  knew,  but  his  word  to 
Le  Claire  held  him  back. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  exactly  phwat  's  in  the  air,  fur  I 
don't  know  it  all  yit.  But  there  's  trouble  brewin'  here, 
an'  we  must  be  ready,  as  we  promised  we  would  be  when 
our  own  wint  to  the  front." 

O'mie  had  hit  home.  Had  we  not  sworn  our  fealty  to 

90 


THE     FORESHADOWING    OF    PERIL 

the  flag,  and  protection  to  our  town  in  our  boyish  patriot- 
ism the  Summer  before? 

"  Boys,'*  O'mie  went  on,  "  if  the  storm  breaks  here  in 
Springvale  we  Ve  got  to  forgit  ourselves  an*  ivery  son 
av  us  be  a  hero  for  the  work  that 's  laid  before  him. 
Safe  or  dangerous,  it 's  duty  we  must  be  doin',  like  the 
true  sons  av  a  glorious  commonwealth,  an*  we  may  need 
to  be  lightnin'  swift  about  it,  too." 

Tell  Mapleson  and  Jim  Conlow  had  come  in  as  O'mie 
was  speaking.  We  knew  their  fathers  were  bitter  Rebels, 
although  the  men  made  a  pretence  to  loyalty,  which  kept 
them  in  good  company.  But  somehow  the  boys  had  not 
broken  away  from  young  Tell  and  Jim.  From  childhood 
we  had  been  playmates,  and  boyish  ties  are  strong. 
This  evening  the  two  seemed  to  be  burdened  with  some- 
thing of  which  they  dared  not  or  would  not  speak. 
There  was  a  sort  of  defiance  about  them,  such  as  an 
enemy  may  assume  toward  one  who  has  been  his  friend, 
but  whom  he  means  to  harm.  Was  it  the  will  of  Provi- 
dence made  O'mie  appeal  to  them  at  the  right  moment? 

"  Say,  boys,"  he  had  a  certain  Celtic  geniality,  and  a 
frank  winning  smile  that  was  irresistible.  "  Say,  boys, 
all  av  the  crowd  's  goin'  to  stand  together  no  matter  what 
comes,  just  as  we  Ve  done  since  we  learned  how  to  swim 
in  the  shallows  down  by  the  Deep  Hole.  We  're  goin' 
to  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder,  an*  we  '11  save  this  town 
from  harm,  whativer  may  come  in  betwane,  an'  whoiver 
av  us  it 's  laid  on  to  suffer,  in  the  ind  we  '11  win.  For 
why?  We  are  on  the  right  side,  an'  can  count  on  the 
same  Power  that 's  carried  men  aven  to  the  inds  av  the 
earth  to  fight  an'  die  fur  what 's  right.  Will  ye  be  av 
us,  boys?  We've  niver  had  no  split  in  our  gang  yet. 
Will  ye  stay  wid  us?  " 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Tell  and  Jim  looked  at  each  other.  Then  Tell 
spoke.  He  had  the  right  stuff  in  him  at  the  last  test 
always. 

"  Yes,  boys,  we  will,  come  what  will  come." 

Jim  grinned  at  Tell.  "I'll  stand  by  Tell,  if  it  kills 
me,"  he  declared. 

We  put  little  trust  in  his  ability.  It  is  the  way  of  the 
world  to  overlook  the  stone  the  Master  Builder  some- 
times finds  useful  for  His  purpose. 

"  An*  you  may  need  us  real  soon,  too,"  Tell  called  back 
as  the  two  went  out. 

"By  cracky,  I  bet  they  know  more'n  we  do,"  Bud 
Anderson  declared. 

Dave  Mead  looked  serious. 

"  Well,  I  believe  they  '11  hold  with  us  anyhow,"  he  said. 
"  What  they  know  may  help  us  yet." 

The  coming  of  another  tremendous  downpour  sent  us 
scampering  homeward.  O'mie  and  I  had  started  up  the 
hill  together,  but  the  underside  of  the  clouds  fell  out 
just  as  we  reached  Judson's  gate,  and  by  the  time  we 
had  come  to  Mrs.  Whately's  we  were  ready  to  dive 
inside  for  shelter.  When  the  rain  settled  down  for 
an  all-night  stay,  Mrs.  Whately  would  wrap  us  against 
it  before  we  left  her.  She  put  an  old  coat  of  Mr. 
Whately's  on  me.  I  had  gone  out  in  my  shirt  sleeves. 
Marjie  looked  bravely  up  at  my  tall  form.  I  knew 
she  was  thinking  of  him  who  had  worn  that  coat. 
The  only  thing  for  O'mie  was  Marjie's  big  water  proof 
cloak.  The  old-fashioned  black-and-silver  mix  with  the 
glistening  black  buttons,  such  as  women  wore  much  in 
those  days.  It  had  a  hood  effect,  with  a  changeable  red 
silk  lining,  fastened  at  the  neck.  To  my  surprise  O'mie 
made  no  objection  at  all  to  wearing  a  girl's  wrap.  But 
I  could  never  fully  forecast  the  Irish  boy.  .  He  drew  the 

92 


THE     FORESHADOWING     OF    PERIL 

circular  garment  round  him  and  pulled  the  hood  over 
his  head. 

"  Come,  Philip,  me  strong  protector,"  he  called,  "  let 's 
be  skiting." 

At  the  door  he  turned  back  to  Marjie  and  said  in  a 
low  voice,  "  Phil  will  mistake  me  fur  a  girl  an*  be  wantin' 
me  to  go  flower-huntin*  out  on  the  West  Prairie,  but  I 
won't  do  it." 

Marjie  blushed  like  the  June  roses,  and  slammed  the 
door  after  him.  A  moment  later  she  opened  it  again 
and  held  the  light  to  show  us  the  dripping  path  to  the 
gate.  Framed  in  the  doorway  with  the  light  held  up  by 
her  round  white  arm,  the  dampness  putting  a  softer  curl 
in  every  stray  lock  of  her  rich  brown  hair,  the  roses 
still  blooming  on  her  cheeks,  she  sent  us  away.  Too 
young  and  sweet-spirited  she  seemed  for  any  evil  to 
assail  her  in  the  shelter  of  that  home. 

Late  at  night  again  the  red  light  of  the  forge  was 
crossed  and  recrossed  by  those  who  moved  about  inside 
the  shop.  Aunt  Candace  and  I  had  sat  long  together 
talking  of  the  War,  and  of  the  raiding  on  the  Kansas 
border.  She  was  a  balm  to  my  spirit,  for  she  was  a 
strong,  fearless  woman,  always  comforting  in  the  hour 
of  sorrow,  and  self-possessed  in  the  face  of  danger.  I 
wonder  how  the  mothers  of  Springvale  could  have 
done  without  her.  She  decked  the  brides  for  their  wed- 
dings, and  tenderly  laid  out  the  dead.  The  new-born 
babe  she  held  in  her  arms,  and  dying  eyes  looking  back 
from  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  sought  her  face.  That 
night  I  slept  little,  and  I  welcomed  the  coming  of  day. 
When  the  morning  dawned  the  world  was  flooded  with 
sunshine,  and  a  cool  steady  west  wind  blew  the  town 
clear  of  mud  and  wet,  the  while  the  Neosho  Valley  was 
threshed  with  the  swollen,  angry  waters. 

93 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

With  the  coming  of  the  sunshine  the  strangers  disap- 
peared. Nowhere  all  that  day  were  there  any  but  our 
own  town's  people  to  be  seen.  Some  of  these,  however, 
I  knew  afterwards,  were  very  busy.  I  remember  see- 
ing Conlow  and  Mapleson  and  Dodd  sauntering  care- 
lessly about  in  different  parts  of  the  town,  especially 
upon  Cliff  Street,  which  was  unusual  for  them.  Just 
at  nightfall  the  town  was  filled  with  strangers  again. 
Yeager  and  his  companion,  who  had  been  water-bound, 
returned  with  half  a  dozen  more  to  the  Cambridge 
House,  and  other  unknown  men  were  washed  in  from 
the  west.  That  night  I  saw  the  red  light  briefly.  Then 
it  disappeared,  and  I  judged  the  shop  was  deserted.  I 
did  not  dream  whose  head  was  shutting  off  the  light 
from  me,  nor  whose  eyes  were  peering  in  through  that 
crevice  in  the  wall.  The  night  was  peacefully  beauti- 
ful, but  its  beauty  was  a  mockery  to  me,  filled  as  I  was 
with  a  nameless  anxiety.  I  had  no  reason  for  it,  yet  I 
longed  for  the  return  of  Father  Le  Claire.  He  had  not 
taken  Jean  with  him,  and  I  judged  that  the  Indian  was 
near  us  somewhere  and  in  the  very  storm  centre  of  all 
this  uneasiness. 

At  midnight  I  wakened  suddenly.  Outside,  a  black 
starless  sky  bent  over  a  cool,  quiet  earth.  A  thick  dark- 
ness hid  all  the  world.  Dead  stillness  everywhere. 
And  yet,  I  listened  for  a  voice  to  speak  again  that  I  was 
sure  I  had  heard  as  I  wakened.  I  waited  only  a  moment. 
A  quick  rapping  under  my  window,  and  a  low  eager  call 
came  to  my  ears.  I  sprang  up  and  groped  my  way  to  the 
open  casement. 

"  What 's  the  matter  down  there?  "  I  called  softly. 

"  Phil,  jump  into  your  clothes  and  come  down  just 
as  quick  as  you  can."  It  was  Tell  Mapleson's  voice,  full 

94 


THE    FORESHADOWING    OF    PERIL 

of  suppressed  eagerness.  "  For  God's  sake,  hurry.  It 's 
life  and  death.  Hurry!  Hurry!" 

"  Run  to  the  side  door,  Tell,  and  call  Aunt  Candace. 
She  '11  let  you  in." 

I  heard  him  make  a  plunge  for  the  side  door.  By  the 
time  my  aunt  wakened  to  open  it,  I  was  down  stairs. 
Tell  stood  inside  the  hallway,  white  and  haggard.  Our 
house  was  like  a  stone  fort  in  its  security,  and  Aunt 
Candace  had  fastened  the  door  behind  him.  She  seemed 
a  perfect  tower  of  strength  to  me,  standing  there  like 
a  strong  guardian  of  the  home. 

"  Stop  a  minute,  Tell.  We  '11  save  time  by  knowing 
what  we  are  about.  What's  the  matter?"  My  aunt's 
voice  gave  him  self-control. 

He  held  himself  by  a  great  effort. 

"  There  's  not  a  second  to  lose,  but  we  can't  do  any- 
thing without  Phil.  He  must  lead  us.  There  's  been  a 
plot  worked  up  here  for  three  nights  in  Conlow's  shop, 
to  burn  every  Union'  man's  house  in  town.  Preacher 
Dodd  and  that  stranger  named  Yeager  and  the  other 
fellow  that's  been  stayin'  at  the  tavern  are  backin* 
the  whole  thing.  The  men  that 's  been  hanging  round 
here  are  all  in  the  plot.  They  're  to  lay  low  a  little 
while,  and  at  two  o'clock  the  blazin  's  to  begin.  Jim 's 
run  to  Anderson's  and  Mead's,  but  we  '11  do  just  what 
Phil  says.  We  '11  get  the  boys  together  and  you  '11  tell 
us  what  to  do.  The  men '11  kill  Jim  an'  me  if  they  find 
out  we  told,  but  we  swore  we  'd  stay  by  you  boys.  We  '11 
help  clear  through,  but  don't  tell  on  us.  Don't  never  tell 
who  told  on  'em.  Please  don't."  Tell  never  had 
seemed  manly  to  me  till  that  moment.  "  They  're  awful 
against  O'mie.  They  say  he  knows  too  much.  He 
heard  'em  talking  too  free  round  the  stables,  They  're 

95 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

after  you  too,  Phil.  They  think  if  they  get  you  out  of 
the  way,  they  can  manage  all  the  rest.  I  heard  old  Dodd 
tell  'em  to  make  sure  of  John  Baronet's  cub.  Said  you 
were  the  worst  in  town,  to  come  against.  They  '11  kill 
you  if  they  lay  hands  on  you.  They  '11  come  right  here 
after  you." 

"  Then  they  '11  go  back  without  him,"  my  aunt  said 
firmly. 

"  They  say  the  Indians  are  to  come  from  the  south  at 
daylight,"  Tell  hurried  on,  "an'  finish  up  all  that's  left 
without  homes.  They  're  the  Kiowas.  They  '11  not  get 
here  till  just  about  daylight."  Tell's  teeth  were  chat- 
tering, and  he  trembled  as  with  an  ague. 

"  Worst  of  all,"— he  choked  now,—"  Whately's  home 's 
to  be  left  alone,  and  Jean's  to  get  Marjie  and  carry  her 
off.  They  hate  her  father  so,  they  've  let  Jean  have  her. 
They  know  she  was  called  over  to  Judson's  late  to  stay 
with  Mrs.  Judson.  He 's  away,  water-bound,  and  the 
baby  's  sick,  and  just  as  she  gets  home,  he  's  to  get  her. 
If  she  screams,  or  tries  to  get  away,  he  '11  scalp  her." 

I  heard  no  more.  My  heart  forgot  to  beat.  I  had 
seen  Marjie's  signal  light  at  ten  o'clock  and  I  was  sure 
of  her  safety.  The  candle  turned  black  before  me.  The 
cry  of  my  dreams,  Irving  Whately's  pleading  cry,  rang 
in  my  ears :  "  Take  care  of  Marjie,  Phil !  Keep  her  from 
harm!" 

"  Phil  Baronet,  you  coward,"  Tell  fairly  hissed  in  my 
ear,  "  come  and  help  us !  We  can't  do  a  thing  without 
you." 

I,  a  coward!  I  sprang  to  the  door  and  with  Tell  be- 
side me  we  sped  away  in  the  darkness.  A  faint  light 
glimmered  in  the  Whately  home.  At  the  gate,  Dave 
Mead  hailed  us. 

"  It 's  too  late,  boys,"  he  whispered,  "  Jean 's  gone  and 

96 


THE     FORESHADOWING    OF    PERIL 

she's  with  him.  He  rode  by  me  like  the  devil,  going 
toward  the  ford.  They  '11  be  drowned  and  that 's  better 
than  for  her  to  live.  The  whole  Indian  Territory  may 
be  here  by  morning." 

I  lifted  my  face  to  the  pitiless  black  sky  above  me, 
and  a  groan,  the  agony  of  a  breaking  heart,  burst  from  my 
lips.  In  that  instant,  I  lived  ages  of  misery. 

"Oh,  Phil,  what  shall  we  do?  The  town's  full  of 
helpless  folks."  Dave  caught  my  arm  to  steady  himself. 
"  Can't  you,  can't  you  put  us  to  work?  " 

Could  I?  His  appeal  brought  me  to  myself.  In  the 
right  moment  the  Lord  sends  us  to  our  places,  and  for- 
sakes us  not  until  our  task  is  finished.  On  me  that  night, 
was  laid  the  duty  of  leadership  in  a  great  crisis;  and  he 
who  had  called  me,  gave  me  power.  Every  Union  house- 
hold in  the  town  must  be  roused  and  warned  of  the  im- 
pending danger.  And  whatever  was  done  must  be  done 
quickly,  noiselessly,  and  at  a  risk  of  life  to  him  who  did 
it.  My  plan  sprang  into  being,  and  Dave  and  Tell  ran 
to  execute  it.  In  a  few  minutes  we  were  to  meet  under 
•the  tavern  oak.  I  dashed  off  toward  the  Cambridge 
House.  Uncle  Cam  had  not  yet  gone  to  bed. 

"Where's  O'mie?"  I  gasped. 

"  I  dunno.  He  flew  in  here  ten  minutes  or  more  ago, 
but  he  never  lit.  In  ten  seconds  he  was  out  again  an' 
gone.  He  's  got  some  sense  an'  generally  keeps  his  red 
head  level.  I  'm  waitin'  to  see  what 's  up." 

In  a  word  I  gave  Cam  the  situation,  all  except  Jean's 
part.  As  I  hurried  out  to  meet  the  boys  at  the  oak,  I 
stumbled  against  something  in  the  dense  darkness.  Cam 
hastened  after  me.  The  flare  of  the  light  from  the  open- 
ing of  the  door  showed  a  horse,  wet  and  muddy  to  the 
throat  latch.  It  stared  at  the  light  in  fright  and  then 
dashed  away  in  the  darkness. 
7  97 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

All  the  boys,  Tell  and  Jim,  the  Meads,  John,  Clayton, 
and  Bud  Anderson, —  all  but  O'mie,  met  in  the  deep 
shadow  of  the  oak  before  the  tavern  door.  Our  plans 
fell  into  form  with  Cam's  wiser  head  to  shape  them  here 
and  there.  The  town  was  districted  and  each  of  us  took 
his  portion.  In  the  time  that  followed,  I  worked  noise- 
lessly, heroically,  taking  the  most  dangerous  places  for 
my  part.  The  boys  rallied  under  my  leadership,  for  they 
would  have  it  so.  Everywhere  they  depended  on  my 
word  to  direct  them,  and  they  followed  my  direction  to 
the  letter.  It  was  not  I,  in  myself,  but  John  Baronet's 
son  on  whom  they  relied.  My  father's  strength  and 
courage  and  counsel  they  sought  for  in  me.  But  all  the 
time  I  felt  myself  to  be  like  a  spirit  on  the  edge  of  doom. 
I  worked  as  one  who  feels  that  when  his  task  is  ended, 
the  blank  must  begin.  Yet  I  left  nothing  undone  because 
of  the  dead  weight  on  my  soul. 

What  happened  in  that  hour,  can  never  all  be  told.  And 
only  God  himself  could  have  directed  us  among  our  ene- 
mies. Since  then  I  have  always  felt  that  the  purpose 
crowns  the  effort.  In  Springvale  that  night  was  a  band 
of  resolute  lawless  men,  organized  and  armed,  with  every 
foot  of  their  way  mapped  out,  every  name  checked,  the 
lintel  of  every  Union  doorway  marked,  men  ready  and 
sworn  to  do  a  work  of  fire  and  slaughter.  Against  them 
was  a  group  of  undisciplined  boys,  unorganized,  surprised, 
and  unequipped,  groping  in  the  darkness  full  of  unseen 
enemies.  But  we  were  the  home-guard,  and  our  own  lives 
were  nothing  to  us,  if  only  we  could  save  the  defenceless. 


CHAPTER    VIII 
THE     COST     OF     SAFETY 

In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

—  LONGFELLOW. 

IT  was  just  half  past  one  o'clock  when  the  sweet-toned 
bell  in  the  Presbyterian  Church  steeple  began  to  ring. 
Dr.  Hemingway  was  at  the  rope  in  the  belfry.  His  part 
was  to  give  us  our  signal.  At  the  first  peal  the  windows 
of  every  Union  home  blazed  with  light.  The  doors  were 
flung  wide  open,  and  a  song  —  one  song  —  rose  on  the 
cool  still  night. 

O  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming?  — 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  perilous  fight 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly  streaming! 
O  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

It  was  sung  in  strong,  clear  tones  as  I  shall  never  hear 
it  sung  again;  and  the  echoes  of  many  voices,  and  the 
swelling  music  of  that  old  church  bell,  floated  down  the 
Neosho  Valley,  mingling  with  the  rushing  of  the  turbulent 
waters. 

It  was  Cam  Gentry's  plan,  this  weapon  of  light  and 

99 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

song.     The  Lord  did  have  a  work  for  him  to  do,  as  Dr. 
Hemingway  had  said. 

"  Boys,"  he  had  counselled  us  under  the  oak,  "  we  can't 
match  'em  in  a  pitched  battle.  They  're  armed  an*  ready, 
and  you  ain't  and  you  can't  do  nothing  in  the  dark.  But 
let  every  house  be  ready,  just  as  Phil  has  planned.  Warn 
them  quietly,  and  when  the  church  bell  rings,  let  every 
winder  be  full  of  light,  every  door  wide  open,  and  every- 
body sing." 

He  could  roar  bass  himself  to  be  heard  across  the  State 
line,  and  that  night  he  fairly  boomed  with  song. 

"  They  're  dirty  cowards,  and  can't  work  only  in  the 
dark  and  secret  quiet.  Give  'em  light  and  song.  Let  'em 
know  we  are  wide  awake  and  not  afraid,  an'  if  Gideon 
ever  had  the  Midianites  on  the  hike,  you  '11  have  them 
pisen  Copperheads  goin'.  They  '11  never  dast  to  show  a 
coil,  the  sarpents !  cause  that 's  not  the  way  they  fight ; 
an'  they  '11  be  wholly  onprepared,  and  surprised." 

Just  before  the  ringing  of  the  signal  bell,  the  boys  had 
met  again  by  appointment  under  the  tavern  oak.  Two 
things  we  had  agreed  upon  when  we  met  there  first.  One 
was  a  pledge  of  secrecy  as  to  the  part  of  young  Tell  and 
Jim  in  our  work  and  to  the  part  of  Mapleson  and  Conlow 
in  the  plot,  for  the  sake  of  their  boys,  who  were  loyal  to 
the  town.  The  other  was  to  say  nothing  of  Jean's  act. 
Marjie  was  the  light  of  Springvale,  and  we  knew  what  the 
news  would  mean.  We  must  first  save  the  homes,  quietly 
and  swiftly.  Other  calamities  would  follow  fast  enough. 
In  the  darkness  now,  Bud  Anderson  put  both  arms  around 
me. 

"Phil,"  he  whispered,  "you're  my  king.  You  muth 
go  to  her  mother  now.  In  the  morning,  your  Aunt  Can- 
dathe  will  come  to  her.  Maybe  in  the  daylight  we  can 
find  Marjie.  He  can't  get  far,  unleth  the  river  —  " 

100 


THE     COST     OF     SAFETY 

He  held  me  tight  in  his  arms,  that  manly,  tender- 
hearted boy.  Then  I  staggered  away  like  one  in  a  dream 
toward  the  Whately  house.  We  had  not  yet  warned  Mrs. 
Whately,  for  we  knew  her  home  was  to  be  spared,  and 
our  hands  were  full  of  what  must  be  done  on  the  in- 
stant. Time  never  seemed  so  precious  to  me  as  in  those 
dreadful  minutes  when  we  roused  that  sleeping  town. 
I  know  now  how  Paul  Revere  felt  when  he  rode  to  Lex- 
ington. 

But  now  my  cold  knuckles  fell  like  lead  against  Mrs. 
Whately's  door,  and  mechanically  I  gave  the  low  signal 
whistle  I  had  been  wont  to  give  to  Marjie.  Like  a  mock- 
ery came  the  clear  trill  from  within.  But  there  was  no 
mockery  in  the  quick  opening  of  the  casement  above  me, 
where  a  dim  light  now  gleamed,  nor  in  the  flinging  up  of 
the  curtain,  and  it  was  not  a  spirit  but  a  real  face  with  a 
crown  of  curly  hair  that  was  outlined  in  the  gloom.  And 
a  voice,  Marjie's  sweet  voice,  called  anxiously: 

"Is  that  you,  Phil?  I'll  be  right  down."  Then  the 
light  disappeared,  and  I  heard  the  patter  of  feet  on  the 
stairs;  then  the  front  door  opened  and  I  walked  straight 
into  heaven.  For  there  stood  Marjie,  safe  and  strong,  be- 
fore me  —  my  Marjie,  escaped  from  the  grave,  or  from  that 
living  hell  that  is  worse  than  death,  captivity  in  the  hands 
of  an  Indian  devil. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Phil?  " 

"  Marjie,  can  it  be  you?     How  did  you  ever  get  back?  " 

She  looked  at  me  wonderingly. 

"  Why,  I  was  only  down  there  at  Judson's.  The  baby  's 
sick  and  Mrs.  Judson  sent  for  me  after  ten  o'clock.  1 
did  n't  come  away  till  midnight.  She  may  send  for  me 
again  at  any  minute, —  that 's  why  I  'm  not  in  bed.  I 
wanted  to  stay  with  her,  but  she  made  me  come  home  on 
mother's  account.  I  ran  home  by  myself.  I  was  n't  afraid. 

101 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

I  heard  a  horse  galloping  away  just  before  I  got  up  to  the 
gate.  But  what  is  the  matter,  Phil?" 

I  stood  there  wholly  sure  now  that  I  was  in  Paradise. 
Jean  had  not  tried  to  get  her  after  all.  She  was  here,  and 
no  harm  had  touched  her.  Tell  had  not  understood. 
Jean  had  been  in  the  middle  of  this  night's  business  some- 
where, I  felt  sure,  but  he  had  done  no  one  any  harm. 
After  all  he  had  been  true  to  his  promise  to  be  a  good 
Indian,  and  Le  Claire  had  misjudged  him. 

"  You  did  n't  see  who  was  on  the  horse,  did  you?  " 

"  No.  Just  as  I  started  from  Mrs.  Judson's,  O'mie  came 
flying  by  me.  He  looked  so  funny.  He  had  on  the  water- 
proof cloak  I  loaned  him  last  night,  hood  and  all,  and 
his  face  was  just  as  white  as  milk.  I  thought  he  was  a 
girl  at  first.  He  called  to  me  almost  in  a  whisper.  '  Don't 
hurry  a  bit,  Marjie,'  he  said ;  '  I  'm  taking  your  cloak 
home.'  But  I  could  n't  find  it  anywhere  about  the  door. 
O'mie  is  always  doing  the  oddest  things ! " 

Just  then  the  church  bell  began  to  ring,  and  together 
we  put  on  the  lights  and  joined  in  the  song.  Its  inspira- 
tion drove  everything  before  it.  I  did  not  stay  long  with 
Marjie,  however,  for  there  was  much  for  me  to  do,  and 
I  seemed  to  have  stepped  from  a  world  of  horror  and 
darkness  into  a  heaven  of  light.  How  I  wished  O'mie 
would  come  in !  I  had  not  found  him  in  all  that  hour,  ages 
long  to  us,  in  which  we  had  done  this  much  of  our  work 
for  the  town.  But  I  was  sure  of  O'mie. 

"  He  's  doing  good  business  somewhere,"  I  said.  "  Bless 
his  red  head.  He  '11  never  quit  so  long  as  there 's  a  thing 
to  do." 

There  was  no  rest  for  anybody  in  Springvale  that  night. 
As  Cam  Gentry  had  predicted,  not  a  torch  blazed;  and 
the  attacking  party,  thrown  into  confusion  by  the  sudden 
blocking  of  their  secret  plan  of  assault,  did  not  rally.  Our 

102 


THE    COST    OF    SAFETY 

next  task  was  to  make  sure  against  the  Indians,  the 
rumor  of  whose  coming  grew  everywhere,  and  the  fear 
of  a  daybreak  massacre  kept  us  all  keyed  to  the  pitch  of 
terrible  expectancy. 

The  town  had  four  strongholds,  the  tavern,  the  Whately 
store,  the  Presbyterian  Church,  and  my  father's  house. 
All  these  buildings  were  of  stone,  with  walls  of  unusual 
thickness.  Into  these  the  women  and  children  were  gath- 
ered as  soon  as  we  felt  sure  the  enemy  in  our  midst  was 
outdone.  Dr.  Hemingway  took  command  of  the  church. 
Cam  Gentry  at  his  own  door  was  a  host. 

"  I  can  see  who  goes  in  and  out  of  the  Cambridge  House, 
I  reckon,  if  I  can't  tell  a  Reb  from  a  Bluecoat  out  in  a 
battle,"  he  declared,  as  he  opened  his  doors  to  the  first 
little  group  of  mothers  and  children  who  came  to  him 
for  protection.  "  I  can  see  safety  for  every  one  of  you 
here,"  he  added  with  that  cheery  laugh  that  made  us  all 
love  him.  Aunt  Candace  was  the  strong  guardian  in  our 
home  up  on  Cliff  Street.  We  looked  for  O'mie  to  take 
care  of  the  store,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  and  that 
duty  was  given  to  Grandpa  Mead,  whose  fiery  Union 
spirit  did  not  accord  with  his  halting  step  and  snowy  hair. 

A  patrol  guard  was  quickly  formed,  and  sentinels  were 
stationed  on  the  south  and  west.  On  the  north  and  east 
the  flooded  Neosho  was  a  perfect  wall  of  water  round 
about  us. 

Since  that  Maytime,  I  have  lived  through  many  days 
of  peril  and  suffering,  and  I  have  more  than  once  walked 
bravely  as  I  might  along  the  path  at  whose  end  I  knew 
was  an  open  grave,  but  never  to  me  has  come  another 
such  night  of  terror.  In  all  the  town  there  were  not  a 
dozen  men,  loyal  supporters  of  the  Union  cause,  who  had  a 
fighting  strength.  On  the  eight  stalwart  boys,  and  the 
quickness  and  shrewdness  of  little  O'mie,  the  salvation 

103 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

of  Springvale  rested.  After  that  awful  night  I  was  never 
a  boy  again.  Henceforth  I  was  a  man,  with  a  man's  work 
and  a  man's  spirit. 

The  daylight  was  never  so  welcome  before,  and  never 
a  grander  sunrise  filled  the  earth  with  its  splendor.  I  was 
up  on  the  bluff  patrolling  the  northwest  boundary  when 
the  dawn  began  to  purple  the  east.  Oh,  many  a  time 
have  I  watched  the  sunrise  beyond  the  Neosho  Valley,  but 
on  this  rare  May  morning  every  shaft  of  light,  every  tint 
of  roseate  beauty  along  the  horizon,  every  heap  of  feathery 
mist  that  decked  the  Plains,  with  the  Neosho,  bank-full, 
sweeping  like  molten  silver  below  it  —  all  these  took  on 
a  new  loveliness.  Eagerly,  however,  I  scanned  the  south- 
west where  the  level  beams  of  day  were  driving  back 
the  gray  morning  twilight,  and  the  green  prairie  billows 
were  swelling  out  of  the  gloom.  Point  by  point,  I  watched 
every  landmark  take  form,  waiting  to  see  if  each  new 
blot  on  the  landscape  might  not  be  the  first  of  the  dreaded 
Indian  bands  whose  coming  we  so  feared. 

With  daybreak,  came  assurance.  Somehow  I  could  not 
believe  that  a  land  so  beautiful  and  a  village  so  peaceful 
could  be  threshed  and  stained  and  blackened  by  the  fire 
and  massacre  of  a  savage  band  allied  to  a  disloyal,  re- 
bellious host.  And  yet,  I  had  lived  these  stormy  years 
in  Kansas  and  the  border  strife  has  never  all  been  told. 
I  dared  not  relax  my  vigilance,  so  I  watched  the  south  and 
west,  trusting  to  the  river  to  take  care  of  the  east. 

And  so  it  happened  that,  sentinel  as  I  was,  I  had  not 
seen  the  approach  of  a  horseman  from  the  northwest,  until 
Father  Le  Claire  came  upon  me  suddenly.  His  horse  was 
jaded  with  travel,  and  he  sat  it  wearily.  A  pallor  over- 
spread his  brown  cheeks.  His  garments  were  wet  and 
mud-splashed. 

"Oh,  Father  Le  Claire,"  I  cried,  "nobody  except  my 

104 


THE    COST     OF     SAFETY 

own  father  could  be  more  welcome.    Where  have  you 
been?" 

"  I  am  not  too  late,  then ! "  he  exclaimed,  ignoring  my 
question.  His  eyes  quickly  took  in  the  town.  No  smoke 
was  rising  from  the  kitchen  fires  this  morning,  for  the 
homes  were  deserted.  "You  are  safe  still?"  He  gave 
a  great  gasp  of  relief.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  steadily 
into  my  eyes. 

"  It  has  been  bought  with  a  price,"  he  said  simply. 
"  Three  days  ago  I  left  you  a  boy.  I  come  back  to  find 
you  a  man.  Where  's  O'mie?  " 

"  D— down  there,  I  think." 

It  dawned  on  me  suddenly  that  not  one  of  us  had  seen 
or  heard  of  O'mie  since  he  left  Tell  and  Jim  at  the  shop 
just  before  midnight.  Marjie  had  seen  him  a  few  minutes 
later,  and  so  had  Cam  Gentry.  But  where  was  he  after 
that?  Much  as  we  had  needed  him,  we  had  had  no  time 
to  hunt  for  him.  Places  had  to  be  filled  by  those  at  hand 
in  the  dreadful  necessity  before  us.  We  could  count 
on  O'mie,  of  course.  He  was  no  coward,  nor  laggard ;  but 
where  could  he  have  kept  himself? 

"What  has  happened,  Philip?"  the  priest  asked. 

Briefly  I  told  him,  ending  with  the  story  of  the  threat- 
ening terror  of  an  Indian  invasion. 

"  They  will  not  come,  Philip.  Do  not  fear.  That  dan- 
ger is  cut  off.  The  Kiowas,  who  were  on  their  way  to 
Springvale,  have  all  turned  back  and  they  are  far  away. 
I  know." 

His  assurance  was  balm  to  my  soul.  And  my  nerves,  on 
the  rack  for  these  three  days,  with  the  culmination  of  the 
last  six  hours  seemed  suddenly  to  snap  within  me. 

"  Go  home  and  rest  now,"  said  Father  Le  Claire.  "  I 
will  take  the  word  along  the  line.  Come  down  to  the  tav- 
ern at  nine  o'clock." 

105 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

Aunt  Candace  had  hot  coffee  and  biscuit  and  maple 
syrup  from  old  Vermont,  with  ham  and  eggs,  all  ready 
for  me.  The  blessed  comfort  of  a  home,  safe  from  harm 
once  more,  filled  me  with  a  sense  of  rest.  Not  until  it 
was  lifted  did  I  realize  how  heavy  was  the  burden  I  had 
carried  through  those  May  nights  and  days. 

Long  before  nine  o'clock,  the  tavern  yard  was  full  of 
excited  people,  all  eagerly  talking  of  the  events  of  the  last 
few  hours.  We  had  hardly  taken  our  bearings  yet,  but 
we  had  an  assurance  that  the  perils  of  the  night  no  longer 
threatened  us.  The  strange  men  who  had  filled  the  town 
the  evening  before  had  all  disappeared,  but  in  the  company* 
here  were  many  whom  we  knew  to  be  enemies  in  the  dark. 
Yet  they  mingled  boldly  with  the  others,  assuming  a  loy- 
alty for  their  own  purposes.  In  the  crowd,  too,  was  Jean 
Pahusca,  impenetrable  of  countenance,  indifferent  to  the 
occasion  as  a  thing  that  could  not  concern  him.  His 
red  blanket  was  gone  and  his  leather  trousers  and  dark 
flannel  shirt  displayed  his  superb  muscular  form.  There 
was  no  knife  in  his  belt  now,  and  he  carried  no  other 
weapon.  With  his  soft  dark  hair  and  the  ruddy  color 
showing  in  his  cheeks,  he  was  dangerously  handsome  to 
a  romantic  eye.  Among  all  its  enemies,  he  had  been 
loyal  to  Springvale.  My  better  self  rebuked  my  distrust, 
and  my  heart  softened  toward  him.  His  plan  with  the 
raiders  to  seize  Marjie  must  have  been  his  crude  notion 
of  saving  her  from  a  worse  peril.  When  he  knew  she  was 
safe  he  had  dropped  out  of  sight  in  the  darkness. 

The  boys  who  had  done  the  work  of  the  night  before 
suddenly  became  heroes.  Not  all  of  us  had  come  together 
here,  however.  Tell  was  keeping  store  up  at  the  "  Last 
Chance,"  and  Jim  was  seeing  to  the  forge  fire,  while 
the  father  of  each  boy  sauntered  about  in  the  tavern 
yard. 

106 


THE    COST     OF    SAFETY 

"  You  won't  tell  anybody  about  father,"  Tell  pleaded  be- 
fore he  left  us.  "  He  never  planned  it,  indeed  he  did  n't. 
It  was  old  man  Dodd  and  Yeager  and  them  other 
strangers." 

I  can  picture  now  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dodd,  piously 
serious,  sitting  on  the  tavern  veranda  at  that  moment,  a 
disinterested  listener  to  what  lay  below  his  spiritual  plane 
of  life.  Just  above  his  temple  was  a  deep  bruise,  and  his 
right  hand  was  bound  with  a  white  bandage.  Five  years 
later,  one  dark  September  night,  by  the  dry  bed  of  the 
Arickaree  Creek  in  Colorado,  I  heard  the  story  of  that 
bandage  and  that  bruise. 

"And  you'll  be  sure  to  keep  still  about  my  dad,  too, 
won't  you?"  Jim  Conlow  urged.  "He's  bad,  but  —  "  as 
if  he  could  find  no  other  excuse,  he  added  grinning,  "  I 
don't  believe  he  's  right  bright ;  and  Tell  and  me  done  our 
best  anyhow. " 

Their  best!  These  two  had  braved  the  worst  of  foes, 
with  those  of  their  own  flesh  and  blood  against  them.  We 
would  keep  their  secret  fast  enough,  nor  should  anyone 
know  from  the  boys  who  of  our  own  townspeople  were 
in  the  plot.  I  believe  now  that  Conlow  would  have  killed 
Jim  had  he  suspected  the  boy's  part  in  that  night's  work. 
I  have  never  broken  faith  with  Jim,  although  Heaven 
knows  I  have  had  cause  enough  to  wish  never  to  hear 
the  name  of  Conlow  again. 

One  more  boy  was  not  in  our  line,  O'mie,  still  missing 
from  the  ranks,  and  now  my  heart  was  heavy.  Everybody 
else  seemed  to  forget  him  in  the  excitement,  however,  and 
I  hoped  all  was  well. 

On  the  veranda  a  group  was  crowding  about  Father 
Le  Claire,  listening  to  what  he  had  to  say.  Nobody  tried 
to  do  business  in  our  town  that  day.  Men  and  women 
and  children  stood  about  in  groups,  glad  to  be  alive  and  to 

107 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

know  that  their  homes  were  safe.  It  was  a  sight  one 
may  not  see  twice  in  a  lifetime.  And  the  thrill  within 
me,  that  I  had  helped  a  little  toward  this  safety,  brought  a 
pleasure  unlike  any  other  joy  I  have  ever  known. 

"Where's  Aunt  Candace?"  I  asked  Dollie  Gentry, 
who  had  grasped  my  arm  as  if  she  would  ring  it  from  my 
shoulder. 

"Hadn't  you  heard?"  Dollie's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"  Judson's  baby  died  this  mornin'.  Judson  he  can't  get 
across  Fingal's  Creek  or  some  of  the  draws,  to  get  home, 
and  the  fright  last  night  was  too  much  for  Mis'  Judson. 
She  fainted  away,  an*  when  she  come  to,  the  baby  was 
dead.  I  'm  cookin'  a  good  meal  for  all  of  'em.  Land 
knows,  carin'  for  the  little  corpse  is  all  they  can  do  with- 
out botherin'  to  cook." 

Good  Mrs.  Gentry  used  her  one  talent  for  everybody's 
comfort.  And  as  for  the  Judsons,  theirs  was  one  of 
the  wayside  tragedies  that  keep  ever  alongside  the  line 
of  civil  strife. 

They  made  room  for  us  on  the  veranda,  six  husky  Kan- 
sas bred  fellows,  hardly  more  than  half-way  through  our 
teens,  and  we  fell  in  with  the  group  about  Father  Le 
Claire.  He  gave  us  a  searching  glance,  and  his  face 
clouded.  Good  Dr.  Hemingway  beside  him  was  eager 
for  his  story. 

"  Tell  us  the  whole  thing,"  he  urged.  "  Then  we  can 
understand  our  part  in  it.  Surely  the  arm  of  the  Lord 
was  not  shortened  for  us  last  night." 

"  It  is  a  strange  story,  Dr.  Hemingway,  with  a  strange 
and  tragic  ending,"  replied  the  priest.  He  related  then 
the  plot  which  O'mie  had  heard  set  forth  by  the  strangers 
in  our  town.  "  I  left  at  once  to  warn  the  Osages,  believing 
I  could  return  before  last  night." 

"  Them  Osages  is  a  cussed  ornery  lot,  if  that  Jean  out 

108 


THE    COST     OF    SAFETY 

on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  there  is  a  sample,"  a  man  from 
the  west  side  of  town  broke  in. 

"  They  are  true  blue,  and  Jean  is  not  an  Osage ;  he  's 
a  Kiowa,"  Le  Claire  replied  quietly. 

"What  of  him  ain't  French/'  declared  Cam  Gentry. 
"  That 's  where  his  durned  meanness  comes  in  biggest. 
Not  but  what  a  Kiowa  's  rotten  enough.  But  sence  he 
did  n't  seem  to  take  part  in  this  doings  last  night,  I  guess 
we  can  stand  him  a  little  while  longer." 

Father  Le  Claire's  face  flushed.  Then  a  pallor  over- 
spread the  flame.  His  likeness  to  the  Indian  flashed  up 
with  that  flush.  So  had  I  seen  Pahusca  flush  with  anger, 
and  a  paleness  cover  his  coppery  countenance.  Self- 
mastery  was  a  part  of  the  good  man's  religion,  however, 
and  in  a  voice  calm  but  full  of  sympathy  he  told  us  of  the 
tragic  events  whose  evil  promise  had  overshadowed  our 
town  with  an  awful  peril. 

It  was  a  well-planned,  cold-blooded  horror,  this  scheme 
of  the  Southern  Confederacy,  to  unite  the  fierce  tribes  of 
the  Southwest  against  the  unprotected  Union  frontier. 
And  with  the  border  raiders  on  the  one  side  and  the 
hostile  Indians  on  the  other,  small  chance  of  life  would 
have  been  left  to  any  Union  man,  woman,  or  child  in  all 
this  wide,  beautiful  Kansas.  In  the  four  years  of  the 
Civil  War  no  cruelty  could  have  exceeded  the  conse- 
quences of  this  conspiracy.. 

Unity  of  purpose  has  ever  been  lacking  to  the  red  race. 
No  federation  has  been  possible  to  it  except  as  that  fed- 
eration is  controlled  by  the  European  brain.  The  con- 
trolling power  in  the  execution  of  this  dastardly  crime 
lay  with  desperate  but  eminently  able  white  men.  Their 
appeal  to  the  Osages,  however,  was  a  fruitless  one.  For 
a  third  of  a  century  the  faithful  Jesuits  had  labored  with 
this  tribe.  Not  in  vain  was  their  seed-sowing. 

109 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Le  Claire  reached  the  Osages  only  an  hour  before  an 
emissary  from  the  leaders  of  this  infamous  plot  came  to 
the  Mission.  The  presence  of  the  priest  counted  so 
mightily,  that  this  call  to  an  Indian  confederacy  fell  upon 
deaf  ears,  and  the  messenger  departed  to  rejoin  his  supe- 
riors. He  never  found  them,  for  a  sudden  and  tragic 
ending  had  come  to  the  conspiracy. 

It  was  a  busy  day  in  Kansas  annals  when  that  company 
of  Rebel  officers  came  riding  up  from  the  South  to  band 
together  the  lawless  savages  and  the  outlawed  raiders 
against  a  loyal  commonwealth.  Humboldt  was  the  most 
southern  Union  garrison  in  Kansas  at  that  time.  South 
of  it  the  Osages  did  much  scout  duty  for  the  Government, 
and  it  held  them  responsible  for  any  invasion  of  this  strip 
of  neutral  soil  between  the  North  and  the  South.  Out  in 
the  Verdigris  River  country,  in  this  Maytime,  a  little 
company  of  Osage  braves  on  the  way  from  their  village 
to  visit  the  Mission  came  face  to  face  with  this  band  of 
invaders  in  the  neutral  land.  The  presence  of  a  score  of 
strange  men  armed  and  mounted,  though  they  were 
dressed  as  Union  soldiers,  must  be  accounted  for,  these 
Indians  reasoned. 

The  scouts  were  moved  only  by  an  unlettered  loyalty 
to  the  flag.  They  had  no  notion  of  the  real  purpose  of 
these  invaders.  The  white  men  had  only  contempt  for 
the  authority  of  a  handful  of  red  men  calling  them  to 
account,  and  they  foolishly  fired  into  the  Indian  band. 
It  was  a  fatal  foolishness.  Two  braves  fell  to  the  earth, 
pierced  by  their  bullets.  The  little  body  of  red  men 
dropped  over  on  the  sides  of  their  ponies  and  were  soon 
beyond  gun  range,  while  their  opponents  went  on  their 
way.  But  briefly  only,  for,  reinforced  by  a  hundred 
painted  braves,  the  whole  fighting  strength  of  their  little 
village,  the  Osages  came  out  for  vengeance.  Near  a 

no 


THE    COST    OF    SAFETY 

bend  in  the  Verdigris  River  the  two  forces  came  together. 
Across  a  scope  five  miles  wide  they  battled.  The  white 
men  must  have  died  bravely,  for  they  fought  stubbornly, 
foot  by  foot,  as  the  Indians  drove  them  into  that  fatal 
loop  of  the  river.  It  is  deep  and  swift  here.  Down  on 
the  sands  by  its  very  edge  they  fell.  Not  a  white  man 
escaped.  The  Indians,  after  their  savage  fashion,  gath- 
ered the  booty,  leaving  a  score  of  naked,  mutilated  bodies 
by  the  river  's  side.  It  was  a  cruel  bit  of  Western  war- 
fare, yet  it  held  back  from  Kansas  a  diabolical  outrage, 
whose  suffering  and  horror  only  those  who  know  the 
Southwest  tribes  can  picture.  And  strangely  enough,  the 
power  that  stayed  the  evil  lay  with  a  handful  of  faithful 
Indian  scouts. 

The  story  of  the  massacre  soon  reached  the  Mission. 
Dreadful  as  it  was,  it  lifted  a  burden  from  Le  Claire's 
mind;  but  the  news  that  the  Comanches  and  the  Kiowas, 
unable  to  restrain  their  tribes,  were  already  on  the  war- 
path, filed  him  with  dread. 

A  twenty-four  hours'  rain,  with  cloudbursts  along  the 
way,  was  now  sending  the  Neosho  and  Verdigris  Rivers 
miles  wide,  across  their  valleys.  It  was  impossible  for 
him  to  intercept  these  tribes  until  the  stream  should  fall. 
The  priest  perfected  his  plans  for  overtaking  them  by 
swift  messengers  to  be  sent  out  from  the  Mission  at  the 
earliest  moment,  and  then  he  turned  his  horse  upstream 
toward  Springvale.  All  day  he  rode  with  all  speed  to 
the  northward.  The  ways  were  sodden  with  the  heavy 
rains,  and  the  smaller  streams  were  troublesome  to  the 
horseman.  Night  fell  long  before  he  had  come  to  the 
upper  Neosho  Valley.  With  the  darkness  his  anxiety 
deepened.  A  thousand  chances  might  befall  to  bring  dis- 
aster before  he  could  reach  us. 

The  hours  of  the  black  night  dragged  on,  and  northward 

in 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

still  the  priest  hurried.  It  was  long  after  midnight  when 
he  found  himself  on  the  bluff  opposite  the  town.  Between 
him  and  Springvale  the  Neosho  rushed  madly,  and  the 
oak  grove  of  the  bottom  land  was  only  black  tree-tops 
above,  and  water  below.  All  hope  of  a  safe  passage 
across  the  river  here  vanished,  for  he  durst  not  try  the 
angry  waters. 

"  There  must  have  been  heavier  rains  here  than  down 
the  stream,"  he  thought.  "  Pray  Heaven  the  messengers 
may  reach  the  Kiowas  before  they  fall  upon  any  of  the 
settlements  in  the  south.  I  must  go  farther  up  to  cross. 
O  God,  grant  that  no  evil  may  threaten  that  town  over 
there!" 

Turning  to  look  once  more  at  the  dark  valley  his  eye 
caught  a  gleam  of  light  far  down  the  river. 

"  That  must  be  Jean  down  at  the  Hermit's  Hole,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  I  wonder  I  never  tried  to  follow  him 
there.  But  if  he 's  down  the  river  it  is  better  for  Spring- 
vale,  anyhow." 

All  this  the  priest  told  to  the  eager  crowd  on  the 
veranda  of  the  Cambridge  House  that  morning.  But  re- 
garding the  light  and  his  thought  of  it,  he  did  not  tell 
us  then,  nor  how,  through  all  and  all,  his  great  fear  for 
Springvale  was  on  account  of  Jean  Pahusca's  presence 
there.  He  knew  the  Indian's  power;  and  now  that  the 
fierce  passion  of  love  for  a  girl  and  hatred  of  a  rival, 
were  at  fever  pitch,  he  dared  not  think  what  might  fol- 
low, neither  did  he  tell  us  how  bitterly  he  was  upbraiding 
himself  for  having  charged  O'mie  with  secrecy. 

He  had  not  yet  caught  sight  of  the  Irish  boy ;  and  Jean, 
who  had  himself  kept  clear  of  the  evil  intent  against 
Springvale  the  night  before,  had  studiously  kept  the 
crowd  between  the  priest  and  himself.  We  did  not  note 
this  then,  for  we  were  spell-bound  by  the  story  of  the 

112 


THE     COST     OF     SAFETY 

Confederate  conspiracy  and  of  Father  Le  Claire's  efforts 
for  our  safety. 

"  The  Kiowas,  who  were  on  the  war-path,  have  been 
cut  off  by  the  Verdigris,"  he  concluded.  "  The  waters, 
that  kept  me  away  from  Springvale  on  this  side,  kept  them 
off  in  the  southwest.  The  Osages  did  us  God's  service  in 
our  peril,  albeit  their  means  were  cruel  after  the  manner 
of  the  savage." 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  group  on  the  veranda,  as  the 
enormity  of  what  we  had  escaped  dawned  upon  us. 

"Let  us  thank  God  that  in  his  ways,  past  finding  out, 
he  has  not  forsaken  his  children."  Dr.  Hemingway  spoke 
fervently. 

I  looked  out  on  the  broad  street  and  down  toward  the 
river  shining  in  the  May  sunlight.  The  air  was  very 
fresh  and  sweet.  The  oak  trees  were  in  their  heaviest 
green,  and  in  the  glorious  light  of  day  the  commonest 
things  in  this  little  frontier  town  looked  good  to  me. 
Across  my  vision  there  swept  the  picture  of  that  wide, 
swift-flowing  Verdigris  River,  and  of  the  dead  whose  blood 
stained  darkly  that  fatal  sand-bar,  their  naked  bodies 
hacked  by  savage  fury,  waiting  the  coming  of  pitiful  hands 
to  give  them  shelter  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  And  then 
I  thought  of  all  these  beautiful  prairies  which  the  plough 
was  beginning  to  subdue,  of  the  homesteads  whose  chim- 
ney smoke  I  had  seen  many  a  morning  from  my  windows 
up  on  Cliff  Street.  I  thought  of  the  little  towns  and  un- 
protected villages,  and  of  what  an  Indian  raid  would  mean 
to  these, —  of  murdered  men  and  burning  houses,  and 
women  dragged  away  into  a  slavery  too  awful  to  picture. 
I  thought  of  Marjie  and  of  what  she  had  escaped.  And 
then  clear,  as  if  he  were  beside  me,  I  heard  O'mie's  voice : 

"  Phil,  oh,  Phil,  come,  come !  "  it  pleaded. 

I  started  up  and  stared  around  me. 
8  113 


CHAPTER    IX 
THE     SEARCH     FOR     THE     MISSING 

Also   Time   runnin'  into   years  — 

A  thousand  Places  left  be'ind; 
An*  Men  from  both  two  'emispheres 

Discussin'  things  of  every  kind; 
So  much  more  near  than  I  'ad  known, 

So  much  more  great  than  I  'ad  guessed  — 
An*  me,  like  all  the  rest,  alone, 

But  reachin'  out  to  all  the  rest! 

—  KIPLING. 

NCLE  CAM»  where  is  O'mie?     I  have  n't  seen  him 
yet,"  I  broke  in  upon  the  older  men  in  the  council. 
"Could  anything  have  happened  to  him?" 

The  priest  rose  hurriedly. 

"  I  have  been  hoping  to  see  him  every  minute,"  he 
said.  "  Has  anybody  seen  him  this  morning?  " 

A  flurry  followed.  Everybody  thought  he  had  seen 
somebody  else  who  had  been  with  O'mie,  but  nobody,  first 
hand,  could  report  of  him. 

"  Why,  I  thought  he  was  with  the  boys,"  Cam  'Gentry 
exclaimed.  "  Nobody  could  keep  track  of  nobody  else 
last  night." 

"  I  thought  I  saw  him  this  morning,"  said  Dr.  Heming- 
way. "  But  " —  hesitatingly  — "  I  do  not  believe  I  did 
either.  I  just  had  him  in  mind  as  I  watched  Henry  An- 
derson's boys  go  by." 

114 


THE     SEARCH     FOR     THE     MISSING 

"All  three  of  us  are  not  equal  to  one  O'mie,"  Clayton 
Anderson  declared. 

"What  part  of  town  did  he  have,  Philip?"  asked  Le 
Claire. 

"  No  part,"  I  answered.  "  We  had  to  take  the  boys  that 
were  out  there  under  the  oak." 

Dr.  Hemingway  called  a  council  at  once,  and  all  who 
knew  anything  of  the  missing  boy  reported.  I  could  give 
what  had  been  told  to  Aunt  Candace  and  myself  only  in 
a  general  way,  in  order  to  shield  Tell  Mapleson.  Cam 
had  seen  O'mie  only  a  minute,  just  before  midnight. 

"  He  went  racin'  out  draggin'  somethin'  after  him,  an* 
jumped  over  the  porch  railin'  here,"  pointing  to  the  nor.th, 
"  stid  o'  goin'  down  the  steps.  O'mie's  double-geared 
lightin'  for  quickness  anyhow,  but  last  night  he  jist  made 
lightnin'  seem  slow  the  way  he  got  off  the  reservation 
an'  into  the  street.  It  roused  me  up.  I  was  half  asleep 
settin'  here  waitin'  to  put  them  strangers  to  bed  again. 
So  I  set  up  an'  waited  fur  the  boy  to  show  up  an'  apolo- 
gize fur  his  not  bein'  no  quicker,  when  in  comes  Phil ;  an' 
ye  all  know  the  rest.  I  've  not  laid  an  eye  on  O'mie 
sence,  but  bein'  short  on  range  I  took  it  he  was  here  but 
out  of  sight.  Oh,  Lord ! "  Cam  groaned,  "  can  anything 
have  happened  to  him?" 

While  Cam  was  speaking  I  noticed  that  Jean  Pahusca 
who  had  been  loafing  about  at  the  far  side  of  the  crowd, 
was  standing  behind  Father  Le  Claire.  No  one  could 
have  told  from  his  set,  still  face  what  his  thoughts  were 
just  then. 

The  last  one  who  had  seen  O'mie  was  Marjie. 

"  I  had  left  the  door  open  so  I  could  find  the  way 
better,"  she  said.  "  At  the  gate  O'mie  came  running  up. 
I  thought  he  was  a  girl,  for  he  had  my  cloak  around  him 
and  the  hood  over  his  head.  His  face  was  very  white. 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  I  supposed  it  was  just  the  light  behind  me,  made  it 
look  so,  for  he  was  n't  the  least  bit  scared.  He  called  to 
me  twice.  *  Don't  hurry,'  he  said ;  '  I  'm  taking  your  cloak 
home.'  Mrs.  Judson  shut  the  door  just  then,  thinking  I 
had  gone  on,  and  I  ran  home,  but  O'mie  flew  ahead  of  me. 
Just  before  I  came  around  the  corner  I  heard  a  horse  start 
up  and  dash  off  to  the  river.  I  ran  in  to  mother  and  shut( 
the  door." 

"  I  met  a  horse  down  by  the  river  as  I  ran  to  grandpa's 
after  Bill.  He  was  staying  over  there  last  night."  It 
was  Dave  Mead  who  spoke.  "  I  made  a  grab  at  the  rein. 
I  was  crazy  to  think  of  such  a  thing,  but  —  "  Dave  did  n't 
say  why  he  tried  to  stop  the  horse,  for  that  would  mean 
to  repeat  what  Tell  had  told  us,  and  we  had  to  keep  Tell's 
part  to  ourselves.  "  The  horse  knocked  me  twenty  feet 
and  tore  off  toward  the  river." 

And  then  for  the  first  time  we  noticed  Dave  Mead's 
right  arm  in  a  sling.  Too  much  was  asked  of  us  in  those 
hours  for  us  to  note  the  things  that  mark  our  common 
days. 

"  It  put  my  shoulder  out  of  place,"  Dave  said  simply. 
"  Did  n't  get  it  in  again  for  so  long,  it 's  pretty  sore.  I 
was  too  busy  to  think  about  it  at  first." 

Dave  Mead  never  put  his  right  hand  to  his  head  again. 
And  to-day,  if  the  broad-shouldered,  fine-looking  Ameri- 
can should  meet  you  on  the  streets  of  Hong  Kong,  he 
would  offer  you  his  left  hand.  For  hours  he  forgot  him- 
self to  save  others.  It  is  his  like  that  have  filled  Kansas 
and  made  her  story  a  record  of  heroism  like  to  the  story 
of  no  other  State  in  all  the  nation. 

But  as  to  O'mie  we  could  find  nothing.  There  was 
something  strange  and  unusual  about  his  returning  the 
borrowed  cloak  at  that  late  hour.  The  whole  thing  was 
so  unlike  O'mie. 

116 


THE     SEARCH     FOR    THE     MISSING 

"  They  Ve  killed  him  and  put  him  in  the  river,"  wailed 
Dollie  Gentry. 

"I'm  afraid  he's  been  foully  dealt  with.  They  sus- 
pected he  knew  too  much,"  and  Dr.  Hemingway  bowed 
his  head  in  sorrow. 

"  He  's  run  straight  into  a  coil  of  them  pisen  Copper- 
heads an*  they  Ve  made  way  with  him ;  an'  to  think  we 
had  n't  missed  him,"  sobbed  Cam  in  his  chair. 

Father  Le  Claire  gripped  his  hands,  and  his  face  grew 
as  expressionless  as  the  Indian's  behind  him.  It  dawned 
upon  us  now  that  O'mie  was  lost,  there  was  no  knowing 
how.  O'mie,  who  belonged  to  the  town  and  was  loved  as 
few  orphan  boys  are  loved.  Oh,  any  of  us  would  have 
suffered  for  him,  and  to  think  that  he  should  be  made  the 
victim  of  rebel  hate,  that  the  blow  should  fall  on  him  who 
had  given  no  offence.  All  his  manliness,  his  abounding 
kindness,  his  sunny  smile  and  joy  in  living,  swept  up  in 
memory  in  the  instant.  Instinctively  the  boys  drew  near 
to  one  another,  and  there  came  back  to  me  the  memory  of 
that  pathetic  look  in  his  eyes  as  we  talked  of  our  troubles 
down  in  the  tavern  stables  two  nights  before :  "  Whoiver 
it 's  laid  on  to  suffer,"  I  could  almost  hear  him  saying  it. 
And  then  I  did  hear  his  voice,  low  and  clear,  a  faint  call 
again,  as  I  had  heard  it  before. 

"Phil,  oh  Phil,  come!" 

It  shot  through  my  brain  like  an  arrow.  I  turned  and 
seized  Le  Claire  by  the  hand. 

"  O'mie's  not  dead,"  I  cried.  "  He  's  alive  somewhere, 
and  I  'm  going  to  find  him." 

"  You  bet  your  life  he  'th  not  dead,"  Bud  Anderson 
echoed  me.  "  Come  on." 

The  boys  with  Le  Claire  started  in  a  body  through  the 
crowd;  a  shout  went  up,  a  sudden  determination  that 
O'mie  must  be  alive  seemed  to  possess  Springvale. 

117 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  Stay  with  Cam  and  Dollie,"  Le  Claire  turned  Dr. 
Hemingway  back  with  a  word.  "  They  need  you  now. 
We  can  do  all  that  can  be  done." 

He  strode  ahead  of  us;  a  stalwart  leader  of  men  he 
would  make  in  any  fray.  It  flashed  into  my  mind  that  it 
was  not  the  Kiowa  Indian  blood  that  made  Jean  Pahusca 
seem  so  stately  and  strong  as  he  strode  down  the  streets 
of  Springvale.  A  red  blanket  over  Le  Claire's  broad 
shoulders  would  have  deceived  us  into  thinking  it  was  the 
Indian  brave  leading  on  before  us. 

The  river  was  falling  rapidly,  and  the  banks  were  slimy. 
Fingal's  Creek  was  almost  at  its  usual  level  and  the  silt 
was  crusting  along  its  bedraggled  borders.  Just  above 
where  it  empties  into  the  Neosho  we  noted  a  freshly 
broken  embankment  as  though  some  weight  had  crushed 
over  the  side  and  carried  a  portion  of  the  bank  with  it. 
Puddles  of  water  and  black  mud  filled  the  little  hollows 
everywhere.  Into  one  of  these  I  stepped  as  we  were 
eagerly  searching  for  a  trace  of  the  lost  boy.  My  foot 
stuck  to  something  soft  like  a  garment  in  the  puddle.  I 
kicked  it  out,  and  a  jet  button  shone  in  the  ooze.  I 
stooped  and  lifted  the  grimy  thing.  It  was  Marjie's 
cloak. 

"  This  is  the  last  of  O'mie,"  Dave  Mead  spoke  rever- 
ently. 

"  Here 's  where  they  pushed  him  in,"  said  John  An- 
derson pointing  to  the  break  in  the  bank. 

There  was  a  buzzing  in  my  ears,  and  the  sunlight  on  the 
river  was  dancing  in  ten  thousand  hideous  curls  and 
twists.  The  last  of  O'mie,  until  maybe,  a  bloated  sodden 
body  might  be  found  half  buried  in  some  flood-wrought 
sand-bar.  The  May  morning  was  a  mockery,  and  every 
green  growing  leaf  seemed  to  be  using  the  life  force  that 
should  be  in  him. 

118 


THE     SEARCH     FOR    THE     MISSING 

"  Yes,  there  's  where  he  went  in."  It  was  Father  Le 
Claire's  voice  now,  "  but  he  fought  hard  for  his  life." 

"  Yeth,  and  by  George,  yonder  'th  where  he  come  out. 
Thee  that  thaplin'  on  the  bank?  It 'th  thplit,  but  it 
did  n't  break ;  an'  that  bank  'th  broken  er'n  thith." 

Oh,  blessed  Bud!  His  tow  head  will  always  wear  a 
crown  to  me. 

On  the  farther  bank  a  struggle  had  wrenched  the  young 
trees  and  shrubs  away  and  a  slide  of  slime  marked  where 
the  victim  of  the  waters  had  fought  for  life.  We  knew 
how  to  swim,  and  we  crossed  the  swollen  creek  in  a  rush. 
But  here  all  trace  disappeared.  Something  or  somebody 
had  climbed  the  bank.  A  horse's  hoofs  showed  in  the 
mud,  but  on  the  ground  beyond  the  horse's  feet  had  not 
seemed  to  leave  a  track.  The  cruel  ruffians  must  have 
pushed  him  back  when  he  tried  to  gain  the  bank  here. 
We  hunted  and  hunted,  but  to  no  avail.  No  other  mark 
of  O'mie's  having  passed  beyond  the  creek  could  be  found. 

It  was  nearly  sunset  before  we  came  back  to  town.  Not 
a  mouthful  had  been  eaten,  and  with  the  tenseness  of  the 
night's  excitement  stretching  every  nerve,  the  loss  of 
sleep,  the  constant  searching,  and  the  heaviness  of  de- 
spair, mud-stained,  wearied,  and  haggard,  we  dragged 
ourselves  to  the  tavern  again.  Other  searchers  had  been 
going  in  different  directions.  In  one  of  these  parties,  use- 
ful, quick  and  wisely  counselling,  was  Jean  Pahusca.  His 
companions  were  loud  in  their  praise  of  his  efforts.  The 
Red  Range  neighborhood  had  received  the  word  at  noon 
and  turned  out  in  a  mass,  women  and  children  joining 
in  the  quest.  But  it  was  all  in  vain.  Wild  theories  filled 
the  air,  stories  of  strangers  struggling  with  somebody 
in  the  dark ;  the  sound  of  screams  and  of  some  one  running 
away.  But  none  of  these  stories  could  be  substantiated. 
And  all  the  while  what  Tell  Mapleson  had  said  to  Aunt 

119 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Candace  and  me  when  he  came  to  warn  us,  kept  repeating 
itself  to  me.  "  They  're  awful  against  O'mie.  They  think 
he  knows  too  much." 

Early  the  next  morning  the  search  was  renewed,  but  at 
nightfall  no  further  trace  of  the  lost  boy  had  been  dis- 
covered. On  the  second  evening,  when  we  gathered  at 
the  Cambridge  House,  Dr.  Hemingway  urged  us  to  take  a 
little  rest,  and  asked  that  we  come  later  to  a  prayer  meet- 
ing in  the  church. 

"  O'mie  is  our  one  sacrifice  beside  the  dear  little  babe  of 
Judson's.  All  the  rest  of  us  have  been  spared  to  life,  and 
our  homes  have  been  protected.  We  must  look  to  the 
Lord  for  comfort  now,  and  thank  Him  for  His  goodness 
to  us." 

Then  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dodd  spoke  sneeringjy: 

"  You  Ve  made  a  big  ado  for  two  days  about  a  little 
coward  who  cut  and  run  at  the  first  sound  of  danger. 
Disguised  himself  like  a  girl  to  do  it.  He  will  come 
sneaking  in  fast  enough  when  he  finds  the  danger  is  over. 
A  lot  of  us  around  town  are  too  wise  to  be  deceived.  The 
Lord  did  save  us,"  how  piously  he  spoke,  "  but  we  should 
not  disgrace  ourselves." 

He  got  no  further.  I  had  been  leaning  limply  against 
the  veranda  post,  for  even  my  strength  was  giving  way, 
more  under  the  mental  strain  than  the  physical  tax.  But 
at  the  preacher's  words  all  the  blood  of  my  fighting  an- 
cestry took  fire.  There  was  a  Baronet  with  Cromwell's 
Ironsides,  the  regiment  that  was  never  defeated  in  battle. 
There  was  a  Baronet  color-bearer  at  Bunker  Hill  and 
later  at  Saratoga,  and  it  was  a  Baronet  who  waited  till 
the  last  boat  crossed  the  Delaware  when  Washington  led 
his  forces  to  safety.  There  were  Baronets  with  Perry  on 
Lake  Erie,  and  at  that  moment  my  father  was  fighting 
for  the  life  of  a  nation.  I  cleared  the  space  between  us 

120 


THE     SEARCH     FOR    THE     MISSING 

at  a  bound,  and  catching  the  Reverend  Dodd  by  throat 
and  thigh,  I  lifted  him  clear  of  the  railing  and  flung  him 
sprawling  on  the  blue-grass. 

"  If  you  ever  say  another  word  against  O'mie  1 11  break 
your  neck,"  I  cried,  as  he  landed. 

Father  Le  Claire  was  beside  him  at  once. 
"  He  's  killed  me,"  groaned  Dodd. 

"  Then  he  ought  to  bury  his  dead,"  Dr.  Hemingway  said 
coldly,  which  was  the  only  time  the  good  old  man  was 
ever  known  to  speak  unkindly  to  any  one  among  us. 

The  fallen  preacher  gathered  himself  together  and 
slipped  away. 

Dollie  Gentry  had  a  royal  supper  for  everybody  that 
night.  Jean  Pahusca  sat  by  Father  Le  Claire  with  us  at 
the  long  table  in  the  dining-room.  Again  my  conscience, 
which  upbraided  me  for  doubting  him,  and  my  instinct, 
which  warned  me  to  beware  of  him,  had  their  battle 
within  me. 

"  I  just  had  to  do  something  or  I  'd  have  jumped  into 
the  Neosho  myself,"  Dollie  explained  in  apology  for  the 
abundant  meal,  as  if  cooking  were  too  worldly  for  that 
grave  time.  "  I  know  now,"  she  said,  "  how  that  poor 
woman  felt  whose  little  boy  was  took  by  the  Kiowas  years 
ago  out  on  the  West  Prairie.  They  said  she  did  jump 
into  the  river.  Anyhow,  she  disappeared." 

"  Did  you  know  her  or  her  husband?  "  Father  Le  Claire 
asked  quietly. 

"  Yes,  in  a  way,"  Dollie  replied.  "  He  was  a  big,  fine- 
looking  man  built  some  like  you,  an*  dark.  He  was 
a  Frenchman.  She  was  a  little,  small-boned  woman.  I 
saw  her  in  the  '  Last  Chance '  store  the  day  she  got  here 
from  the  East.  She  was  fair  and  had  red  hair,  I  should 
say;  but  they  said  the  woman  that  drowned  herself  was 
a  black-haired  French  woman.  She  did  n't  look  French 

121 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

to  me.  She  lived  in  that  little  cabin  up  around  the  bend 
toward  Red  Range,  poor  dear !  That  cabin  's  always  been 
haunted,  they  say." 

"  Was  she  never  heard  of  again?  "  the  priest  went  on. 
We  thought  he  was  keeping  Dollie's  mind  off  O'mie. 

"  Ner  him  neither.  He  cut  out  west  toward  Santy  Fee 
with  some  Mexican  traders  goin'  home  from  Westport.  I 
heard  he  left  *em  at  Pawnee  Rock,  where  they  had  a 
regular  battle  with  the  Kiowas;  some  thought  he  might 
have  been  killed  by  the  Kiowas,  and  others  by  the  Mexi- 
cans. Anyhow,  he  never  was  heard  of  in  Springvale  no 
more." 

"  Mrs.  Gentry,"  Le  Claire  asked  abruptly,  "  where  did 
you  find  O'mie?" 

"  Why,  we  've  had  him  so  long  I  forget  we  never  had  n't 
Him."  Dollie  seemed  confused,  for  O'mie  was  a  part  of 
her  life.  "  He  was  brought  up  here  from  the  South  by 
a  missionary.  Seems  to  me  he  found  the  little  feller  (he 
was  only  five  years  old)  trudgin*  off  alone,  an*  sayin'  he 
wouldn't  stay  at  the  Mission  'cause  there  was  Injuns 
there.  Said  the  Injuns  killed  his  father,  an*  he  kicked 
an'  squalled  till  the  missionary  just  brought  him  up  here. 
He  was  on  his  way  to  St.  Mary's,  up  on  the  Kaw,  an*  he 
was  takin'  the  little  one  on  with  him.  He  stopped  here 
with  O'mie  an'  the  little  feller  was  hungry  — " 

"  And  you  fed  him ;  naked,  and  you  clothed  him,"  the 
priest  added  reverently. 

"  Poor  O'mie !  "  and  Dollie  made  a  dive  for  the  kitchen 
to  weep  out  her  grief  alone. 

It  seemed  to  settle  upon  Springvale  that  O'mie  was 
lost;  had  been  overcome  in  some  way  by  the  murderous 
raiders  who  had  infested  our  town. 

In  sheer  weariness  and  hopelessness  I  fell  on  my  bed, 
that  night,  and  sleep,  the  "  sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravelled 

122 


THE     SEARCH     FOR    THE    MISSING 

sleave  of  care,"  fell  upon  me.  Just  at  daybreak  I  woke 
with  a  start.  I  had  not  dreamed  once  all  night,  but  now, 
wide  awake,  with  my  face  to  the  open  east  window  where 
the  rose  tint  of  a  grand  new  day  was  deepening  into 
purple  on  the  horizon's  edge,  feeling  and  knowing  every- 
thing perfectly,  I  saw  O'mie's  face  before  me,  white  and 
drawn  with  pain,  but  gloriously  brave.  And  his  pleading 
voice,  "Phil,  yell  come  soon,  won't  ye?"  sounded  low 
and  clear  in  my  ears. 

I  sprang  up  and  dressed  myself.  I  was  so  sure  of 
O'mie,  I  could  hardly  wait  to  begin  another  search.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  impel  me  to  speed.  "  He  won't  last 
long,"  was  a  vague,  persistent  thought  that  haunted  me. 

"What  is  it,  Phil?"  my  aunt  called  as  I  passed  her 
door. 

"  Aunt  Candace,  it 's  O'mie.  He  's  not  dead  yet,  I  'm 
sure.  But  I  must  go  at  once  and  hunt  again." 

"Where  will  you  go  now?"  she  queried. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  'm  just  being  led,"  I  replied. 

"  Phil,"  Aunt  Candace  was  at  the  door  now,  "  have  you 
thought  of  the  Hermit's  Cave?" 

Her  words  went  through  me  like  a  sword-thrust. 

"  Why,  why, —  oh,  Aunt  Candace,  let  me  think  a  min- 
ute." 

"  I  've  been  thinking  for  twelve  hours,"  said  my  aunt. 
"  Until  you  try  that  place  don't  give  up  the  hunt." 

"  But  I  don't  know  how  to  get  there." 

"Then  make  a  way.  You  are  not  less  able  to  do  im- 
possible things  than  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  were.  If  you 
ever  find  O'mie  it  will  be  in  that  place.  I  feel  it,  I  can't 
say  why.  But,  Phil,  you  will  need  the  boys  and  Father 
Le  Claire.  Take  time  to  get  breakfast  and  get  yourself 
together.  You  will  need  all  your  energy.  Don't  squan- 
der it  the  first  thing." 

123 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Dear  Aunt  Candace !  This  many  a  year  has  her  grave 
been  green  in  the  Springvale  cemetery,  but  greener  still 
is  her  memory  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  knew  her.  She 
had  what  the  scholars  of  to-day  strive  to  possess  —  the 
power  of  poise. 

I  ate  my  breakfast  as  calmly  as  I  could,  and  before  I 
left  home  Aunt  Candace  made  me  read  the  Ninety-first 
Psalm.  Then  she  kissed  me  good-bye  and  bade  me  God- 
speed. Something  kept  telling  me  to  hurry,  hurry,  as  I 
tried  to  be  deliberate,  and  quickened  my  thought  and  my 
step.  At  the  tavern  Cam  Gentry  met  us. 

"It  ain't  no  use  to  try,  boys.  O'mie  's  down  in  the 
river  where  the  cussed  Copperheads  put  him ;  but  you  're 
good  to  keep  tryin'."  He  sat  down  in  a  helpless  resigna- 
tion, so  unlike  his  natural  buoyant  spirit  it  was  hard  to 
believe  that  this  was  the  same  Cam  we  had  always  known. 

"  Judson's  baby  's  to  be  buried  to-day,  but  we  can't  even 
bury  O'mie.  Oh,  it's  cruel  hard."  Cam  groaned  in  his 
chair. 

The  dew  had  not  ceased  to  glitter,  and  the  sun  was 
hardly  more  than  risen  when  Father  Le  Claire  and  the 
crowd  of  boys,  reinforced  now  by  Tell  Mapleson  and  Jim 
Conlow,  started  bravely  out,  determined  to  find  the  boy 
who  had  been  missing  for  what  seemed  ages  to  us. 

"  If  we  find  O'mie,  we  '11  send  word  by  the  fastest  run- 
ner, and  you  must  ring  the  church  bell,"  Le  Claire  ar- 
ranged with  Cam.  "  All  the  town  can  have  the  word  at 
once  then." 

"  We  '11  go  to  the  Hermit's  Cave  first,"  I  announced. 

The  company  agreed,  but  only  Bud  Anderson  seemed 
to  feel  as  I  did.  To  the  others  it  was  a  wasted  bit  of 
heroism,  for  if  none  of  us  had  yet  found  the  way  to  this 
retreat,  why  should  we  look  for  O'mie  there  ?  So  the  boys 
argued  as  we  hurried  to  the  river.  The  Neosho  was  inside 

124 


THE    SEARCH    FOR    THE    MISSING 

its  banks  again,  but,  deep  and  swift  and  muddy,  it  swept 
silently  by  us  who  longed  to  know  its  secrets. 

"Philip,  why  do  you  consider  the  cave  possible?"  Le 
Claire  asked  as  we  followed  the  river  towards  the  cliff. 

"  Aunt  Candace  says  so,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,  it 's  worth  the  trial  if  only  to  prove  a  woman's 
intuition  —  or  whim,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  same  old  cliff  confronted  us,  although  the  many 
uprooted  trees  showed  a  jagged  outcrop  this  side  the 
sheer  wall.  We  looked  up  helplessly  at  the  height.  It 
seemed  foolish  to  think  of  O'mie  being  in  that  inaccessible 
spot. 

"  If  he  is  up  there,"  Dave  Mead  urged,  "  and  we  can 
get  to  him,  it  will  be  to  put  him  alongside  Judson's  baby 
this  afternoon." 

All  the  other  boys  were  for  turning  back  and  hunting 
about  Fingal's  Creek  again,  all  except  Bud.  Such  a  pink 
and  white  boy  he  was,  with  a  dimple  in  each  cheek  and  a 
blowsy  tow  head. 

"Will  you  stay  with  me,  Bud,  till  I  get  up  there?"  I 
asked  him. 

"  Yeth  thir !  or  down  there.  Let  'th  go  round  an*  try 
the  other  thide." 

"  Well,  I  guess  we  '11  all  stay  with  Phil,  you  cottontop," 
Tell  Mapleson  put  in. 

We  all  began  to  circle  round  the  bluff  to  get  beyond 
this  steep,  forbidding  wall.  Our  plan  was  to  go  down 
the  river  beyond  the  cave,  and  try  to  climb  up  from  that 
point.  Crossing  along  by  the  edge  of  the  bluff  we  passed 
the  steepest  part  and  were  coming  again  to  where  the 
treetops  and  bushes  that  clung  to  the  side  of  the  high 
wall  reached  above  the  crest,  as  they  do  across  the  street 
from  my  own  home.  Just  ahead  of  us,  as  we  hurried,  I 
caught  sight  of  a  flat  slab  of  the  shelving  rock  slipped 

125 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

aside  and  barely  balancing  on  the  edge,  one  end  of  it 
bending  down  the  treetops  as  if  newly  slid  into  that  place. 
All  about  the  stone  the  thin  sod  of  the  bluff's  top  was 
cut  and  trampled  as  if  a  struggle  had  been  there.  We 
examined  it  carefully.  A  horse's  tracks  were  plainly  to 
be  seen. 

"  Something  happened  here,"  Le  Claire  said.  "  Looks 
like  a  horse  had  been  urged  up  to  the  very  edge  and  had 
kept  pulling  back." 

"  And  that  stone  is  just  slipped  from  its  place,"  Clayton 
Anderson  declared.  "  Something  has  happened  here  since 
the  rains." 

As  we  came  to  the  edge,  we  saw  a  pile  of  earth  recently 
scraped  from  the  stone  outcrop  above. 

"  Somebody  or  something  went  over  here  not  long  ago," 
I  cried. 

"  Look  out,  Phil,"  Bill  Mead  called,  "  or  somebody  else 
will  follow  somebody  before  'em  —  " 

Bill's  warning  came  too  late.  I  had  stepped  on  the  bal- 
anced slab.  It  tipped  and  went  over  the  side  with  a 
crash.  I  caught  at  the  edge  and  missed  it,  but  the  effort 
threw  me  toward  the  cliff  and  I  slid  twenty  feet.  The 
bushes  seemed  to  part  as  by  a  well-made  opening  and  I 
caught  a  strong  limb,  and  gained  my  balance.  I  looked 
back  at  the  way  I  had  come.  And  then  I  gave  a  great 
shout.  The  anxious  faces  peering  down  at  me  changed 
a  little. 

"  What  is  it?  "  came  the  query. 

I  pointed  upward. 

"The  nicest  set  of  hand-holds  and  steps  clear  up,"  I 
called.  "  You  can't  see  for  the  shelf.  But  right  under 
there  where  Bud's  head  is,  is  the  best  place  to  get  a  grip 
and  there's  a  foothold  all  the  way  down."  I  stared  up 
again.  "  There 's  a  rope  fastened  right  under  there.  Bend 

126 


THE    SEARCH    FOR    THE    MISSING 

over,  Bud,  careful,  and  you  '11  find  it.    It  will  let  you  over 
to  the  steps.     Swing  in  on  it." 

In  truth,  a  set  of  points  for  hand  and  foot  partly  natural, 
partly  cut  there,  rude  but  safe  enough  for  boy  climbers 
like  ourselves,  led  down  to  my  tree  lodge. 

"And  what's  below  you?"  shouted  Tell. 

"  Another  tree  like  this.  I  don't  know  how  far  down 
if  you  jump  right,"  I  answered  back. 

"  Well,  jump  right,  for  I  'm  nekth.  Ever  thee  a  tow- 
headed  flying  thquirrel?  "  And  Bud  was  shinning  down 
over  the  edge  clawing  tightly  the  stone  points  of  vantage. 

Many  a  time  in  these  sixty  years  have  I  seen  a  difficult 
and  dreaded  way  grow  suddenly  easy  when  the  time  came 
to  travel  it.  When  we  were  only  boys  idling  away  the 
long  summer  afternoons  the  cliff  was  always  impossible. 
We  had  rarely  tried  the  downward  route,  and  from  below 
with  the  river,  always  dangerously  deep  and  swift,  at  the 
base,  our  exploring  had  brought  failure.  That  hand-hold 
of  leather  thongs,  braided  into  a  rope  and  fastened  se- 
curely under  the  ledge  out  of  sight  from  above,  gave  the, 
one  who  knew  how  the  easy  passage  to  the  points  of 
rock.  Then  for  nearly  a  hundred  feet  zigzagging  up 
stream  by  leaping  cautiously  to  the  right  place,  by  cling- 
ing and  swinging,  the  way  opened  before  us.  I  took  the 
first  twenty  feet  at  a  slide.  The  others  caught  the  leather 
rope,  testing  to  see  if  it  was  securely  fastened.  Its  two 
ends  were  tied  around  the  deeply  grooved  stone. 

Father  Le  Claire  and  Jim  Conlow  stayed  at  the  top. 
The  one  to  help  us  back  again;  the  other,  as  the  swift- 
est-footed boy  among  us,  to  run  to  town  with  any  message 
needful  to  be  sent.  The  rest  of  us,  taking  all  manner  of 
fearful  risks,  crashed  down  over  the  side  of  that  bluff  in 
headlong  haste. 

The  Hermit's  Cave  opened  on  a  narrow  ledge  such  as 

127 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

runs  below  the  "  Rockport "  point,  where  Marjie  and  I 
used  to  play,  off  Cliff  Street.  We  reached  this  ledge  at 
last,  hot  and  breathless,  hardly  able  to  realize  that  we  were 
really  here  in  the  place  that  had  baffled  us  so  long.  It 
was  an  almost  inaccessible  climb  to  the  crest  above  us, 
and  the  cliff  had  to  be  taken  at  an  angle  even  then.  I 
believe  any  one  accustomed  only  to  the  prairie  would 
never  have  dared  to  try  it. 

The  Hermit's  Cave  was  merely  a  deep  recess  under  the 
overhanging  shelf.  It  penetrated  far  enough  to  offer  a 
retreat  from  the  weather.  The  thick  tangle  of  vines  be- 
fore it  so  concealed  the  place  that  it  was  difficult  to  find 
it  at  first.  Just  beyond  it  the  rock  projected  over  the  line 
of  wall  and  overhung  the  river.  It  was  on  this  point  that 
the  old  Hermit  had  been  wont  to  sit,  and  from  which 
tradition  says  he  fell  to  his  doom.  It  was  here  we  had 
seen  Jean  Pahusca  on  that  hot  August  afternoon  the 
summer  before.  How  long  ago  all  that  seemed  now  as 
the  memory  of  it  flashed  up  in  my  mind,  and  I  recalled 
O'mie's  quiet  boast,  "  If  he  can  get  up  there,  so  can  I ! " 

I  was  a  careless  boy  that  day.  I  felt  myself  a  man  now, 
with  human  destiny  resting  on  my  shoulders.  As  we 
came  to  this  rocky  projection  I  was  leading  the  file  of  cliff- 
climbers.  The  cave  was  concealed  by  the  greenery.  I 
stared  about  and  then  I  called,  "  O'mie!  O'mie!  " 

Faintly,  just  beside  me,  came  the  reply:  "  Phil,  you  've 
come?  Thank  God!" 

I  tore  through  the  bushes  and  vines  into  the  deep  re- 
cess. The  dimness  blinded  me  at  first.  What  I  saw  when 
the  glare  left  my  eyes  was  O'mie  stretched  on  the  bare 
stones,  bound  hand  and  foot.  His  eyes  were  burning 
like  stars  in  the  gloom.  His  face  was  white  and  drawn 
with  suffering,  but  he  looked  up  bravely  and  smiled  upon 
me  as  I  bent  over  him  to  lift  him.  Before  I  could  speak, 

128 


THE     SEARCH     FOR     THE    MISSING 

Bud  had  cut  the  bands  and  freed  him.     He  could  not 
move,  and  I  lifted  him  like  a  child  in  my  strong  arms. 

"Is  the  town  safe?"  he  asked  feebly. 

"  Yes,  now  we  've  found  you,"  Dave  Mead  replied. 

"How  did  you  get  here,  O'mie?"  Clayton  Anderson 
asked. 

But  O'mie,  lying  limply  in  my  arms,  murmured  de- 
liriously of  the  ladder  by  the  shop,  and  wondered  feebly 
if  it  could  reach  from  the  river  up  to  the  Hermit's  Cave. 
Then  his  head  fell  forward  and  he  lay  as  one  dead  on  my 
knee. 

A  year  before  we  would  have  been  a  noisy  crew  that 
worked  our  way  to  this  all  but  inaccessible  place,  and  we 
would  have  filled  the  valley  with  whoops  of  surprise  at 
finding  anything  in  the  cavern.  To-day  we  hardly  spoke 
as  we  carried  O'mie  out  into  the  light.  He  shivered  a 
little,  though  still  unconscious,  and  then  I  felt  the  hot 
fever  begin  to  pulse  throughout  his  body. 

Dave  Mead  was  half  way  up  the  cliff  to  Father  Le 
Claire.  Out  on  the  point  John  Anderson  waved,  to  the 
crest  above,  the  simple  message,  "  We  Ve  found  him." 

Bud  dived  into  the  cavern  and  brought  out  an  empty 
jug,  relic  of  Jean  Pahusca  Js  habitation  there. 

"  What  he  needth  ith  water,"  Bud  declared.  "  I  '11  bet 
he  'th  not  had  a  drop  for  two  dayth." 

"How  can  you  get  some,  Bud?  We  can't  reach  the 
river  from  here,"  I  said. 

"Bah!  all  mud,  anyhow.  I'll  climb  till  I  find  a 
thpring.  They're  all  around  in  the  rockth.  The  Lord 
give  Motheth  water.  I'll  hunt  till  He  thoweth  me 
where  it  ith." 

Bud  put  off  in  the  bushes.     Presently  his  tow  head 
bobbed  through  the  greenery  again  and  a  jug  dripping 
full  of  cool  water  was  in  his  hands. 
9  129 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

"Thame  leadin'  that  brought  uth  here  done  it,"  he 
lisped,  moistening  O'mie's  lips  with  the  precious  liquid. 

Bud  had  a  quaint  use  of  Bible  reference,  although  he  dis- 
claimed Dr.  Hemingway's  estimate  of  him  as  the  best 
scholar  in  the  Presbyterian  Sunday-school. 

It  seemed  hours  before  relief  came.  I  held  O'mie  all 
that  time,  hoping  that  the  gracious  May  sunshine  might 
win  him  to  us  again,  but  his  delirium  increased.  He  did 
not  know  any  of  us,  but  babbled  of  strange  things. 

At  length  many  shouts  overhead  told  us  that  half  of 
Springvale  was  above  us,  and  a  rude  sort  of  hammock 
was  being  lowered.  "  It 's  the  best  we  can  do,"  shouted 
Father  Le  Claire.  "  Tie  him  in  and  we  '11  pull  him  up." 

It  was  rough  handling  even  with  the  tenderest  of  care, 
and  a  very  dangerous  feat  as  well.  I  watched  those  above 
draw  up  O'mie's  body  and  I  was  the  last  to  leave  the 
cave.  As  I  turned  to  go,  by  merest  chance,  my  eye  caught 
sight  of  a  knife  handle  protruding  from  a  crevice  in  the 
rock.  I  picked  it  up.  It  was  the  short  knife  Jean  Pa- 
husca  always  wore  at  his  belt.  As  I  looked  closely,  I 
saw  cut  in  script  letters  across  the  steel  blade  the  name, 
Jean  Le  Claire. 

I  put  the  thing  in  my  pocket  and  soon  overtook  the 
other  boys,  who  were  leaping  and  clinging  on  their  way 
to  the  crest. 

That  night  Kansas  was  swept  across  by  the  very  worst 
storm  I  have  known  in  all  these  sixty  years.  It  lifted 
above  the  town  and  spared  the  beautiful  oak  grove  in  the 
bottom  lands  beside  us.  Further  down  it  swept  the  valley 
clean,  and  the  bluff  about  the  cave  had  not  one  shrub  on 
its  rough  sides.  The  lightning,  too,  played  strange 
pranks.  The  thunderbolts  shattered  trees  and  rocks,  up- 
rooting the  one  and  rending  and  tumbling  the  other  in 
huge  masses  of  debris  upon  the  valley.  It  broke  even  the 

130 


THE    SEARCH    FOR    THE    MISSING 

rough  way  we  had  traversed  to  the  Hermit's  Cave,  and  a 
great  heap  of  fallen  stone  now  shut  the  cavern  in  like  a 
rock  tomb.  Where  O'mie  had  lain  was  sealed  to  the 
world,  and  it  was  a  full  quarter  of  a  century  before  a 
path  was  made  along  that  dangerous  cliff -side  again. 


CHAPTER    X 
O'MIE'S    CHOICE 

And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods? 

—  MACATJLAY. 

was  only  one  church  bell  in  Springvale  for 
JL  many  years.  It  called  to  prayers,  or  other  public 
service.  It  sounded  the  alarm  of  fire,  and  tolled  for  the 
dead.  It  was  our  school-bell  and  wedding-bell.  It 
clanged  in  terror  when  the  Cheyennes  raided  eastward 
in  '67,  and  it  pealed  out  solemnly  for  the  death  of  Abraham 
Lincoln.  It  chimed  on  Christmas  Eve  and  rang  in  each 
>New  Year.  Its  two  sad  notes  that  were  tolled  for  the 
years  of  the  little  Judson  baby  had  hardly  ceased  their 
vibrations  when  it  broke  forth  into  a  ringing,  joyous 
resonance  for  the  finding  of  O'mie  alive. 

O'mie  was  taken  to  our  home.  No  other  woman's  hands 
were  so  strong  and  gentle  as  the  hands  of  Candace  Bar- 
onet. Everybody  felt  that  O'mie  could  be  trusted  no- 
where else.  It  was  hard  for  Cam  and  Dollie  at  first,  but 
when  Dollie  found  she  might  cook  every  meal  and  send 
it  up  to  my  aunt,  she  was  more  reconciled ;  while  Cam  came 
and  went,  doing  a  multitude  of  kindly  acts.  This  was 
long  before  the  days  of  telephones,  and  a  hundred  steps 
were  needed  for  every  one  taken  to-day. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  O'mie  hung  between  life 

132 


O'MIE'S    CHOICE 

and  death.  With  all  the  care  and  love  given  him,  his 
strength  wasted  away.  He  had  been  cruelly  beaten,  and 
cuts  and  bruises  showed  how  terrible  had  been  his  fight 
for  freedom. 

At  first  he  talked  deliriously,  but  in  the  weakness  that 
followed  he  lay  motionless  hour  on  hour.  And  with  the 
fever  burning  out  his  candle  of  life,  we  waited  the  end. 
How  heavy-hearted  we  were  in  those  days!  It  seemed 
as  though  all  Springvale  claimed  the  orphan  boy.  And 
daily,  morning  and  evening,  a  messenger  from  Red  Range 
came  for  word  of  him,  bearing  always  offers  of  whatever 
help  we  would  accept  from  the  kind-hearted  neighbor- 
hood. 

Father  Le  Claire  had  come  into  our  home  with  the 
bringing  of  O'mie,  and  gentle  as  a  woman's  were  his  min- 
istrations. One  evening,  when  the  end  of  earthly  life 
seemed  near  for  O'mie,  the  priest  took  me  by  the  arm, 
and  we  went  down  to  the  "  Rockport "  point  together. 
The  bushes  were  growing  very  rank  about  my  old  play- 
ground and  try  sting  place.  I  saw  Marjie  daily,  for  she 
came  and  went  about  our  house  with  quiet  usefulness. 
But  our  hands  and  hearts  were  full  of  the  day's  sad  burden, 
and  we  hardly  spoke  to  each  other.  Marjie's  nights  were 
spent  mostly  with  poor  Mrs.  Judson,  whose  grief  was 
wearing  deep  grooves  into  the  young  mother  face. 

To-night  Le  Claire  and  I  sat  down  on  the  rock  and 
breathed  deeply  of  the  fresh  June  air.  Below  us,  for 
many  a  mile,  the  Neosho  lay  like  a  broad  belt  of  silver 
in  the  deepening  shadows  of  the  valley,  while  all  the 
West  Prairie  was  aflame  with  the  sunset  lights.  The 
world  was  never  more  beautiful,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
Plains  seemed  reaching  out  glad  hands  to  us  who  were 
so  strong  and  full  of  life.  All  day  we  had  watched  be- 
side the  Irish  boy.  His  weakened  pulse-beat  showed  how 

133 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

steadily  his  strength  was  ebbing.  He  had  fallen  asleep 
now,  and  we  dared  not  think  what  the  waking  might  be 
for  us. 

"  Philip,  when  O'mie  is  gone,  I  shall  leave  Springvale," 
the  priest  began.  "  I  think  that  Jean  Pahusca  has  at  last 
decided  to  go  to  the  Osages.  He  probably  will  never  be 
here  again.  But  if  he  should  come — "  Le  Claire  paused 
as  if  the  words  pained  him  — "  remember  you  cannot  trust 
him.  I  have  no  tie  that  binds  me  to  you.  I  shall  go  to 
the  West.  I  feel  sure  the  Plains  Indians  need  me  now 
more  than  the  Osages  and  the  Kaws." 

I  listened  silently,  not  caring  to  question  why  either 
O'mie  or  Jean  should  bind  him  anywhere.  The  former 
was  all  but  lost  to  me  already.  Of  the  latter  I  did  not 
care  to  think. 

"  And  before  I  go,  I  want  to  tell  you  something  I  know 
of  O'mie,"  Le  Claire  went  on. 

I  had  wondered  often  at  the  strange  sort  of  under- 
standing I  knew  existed  between  himself  and  O'mie.  I 
began  to  listen  more  intently  now,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  leaving  the  Hermit's  Cave  I  thought  of  the  knife 
with  the  script  lettering.  I  shrank  from  questioning  him 
or  showing  him  the  thing.  I  had  something  of  my  father's 
patience  in  letting  events  tell  me  what  I  wanted  to  know. 
So  I  asked  no  questions,  but  let  him  speak. 

"  O'mie  comes  by  natural  right  into  a  dislike,  even 
hatred,  of  the  red  race.  It  may  be  I  know  something 
more  of  him  than  anyone  else  in  Springvale  knows.  His 
story  is  a  romance  and  a  tragedy,  stranger  than  fiction. 
In  the  years  to  come,  when  hate  shall  give  place  to  love 
in  our  nation,  when  the  world  is  won  to  the  church,  a 
younger  generation  will  find  it  hard  to  picture  the  life 
their  forefathers  lived." 

The  priest's  brow  darkened  and  his  lips  were  com- 

134 


O'MIE'S    CHOICE 

pressed,  as  if  he  found  it  hard  to  speak  what  he  would 
say. 

"  I  come  to  you,  Philip,  because  your  experience  here 
has  made  you  a  man  who  were  only  a  boy  yesterday; 
because  you  love  O'mie;  because  you  have  been  able  to 
keep  a  quiet  tongue;  and  most  of  all,  because  you  are 
John  Baronet's  son,  and  heir,  I  believe,  to  his  wisdom. 
Most  of  O'mie's  story  is  known  to  your  father.  He  found 
it  out  just  before  he  went  to  the  war.  It  is  a  tragical  one. 
The  boy  was  stolen  by  a  band  of  Indians  when  he  was 
hardly  more  than  a  baby.  It  was  a  common  trick  of 
the  savages  then;  it  may  be  again  as  our  frontier  creeps 
westward." 

The  priest  paused  and  looked  steadily  out  over  the 
Neosho  Valley,  darkening  in  the  twilight. 

"  You  know  how  you  felt  when  O'mie  was  lost.  Can 
you  imagine  what  his  mother  felt  when  she  found  her  boy 
was  stolen?  Her  husband  was  away  on  a  trapping  tour, 
had  been  away  for  a  long  time,  and  she  was  alone.  In  a 
very  frenzy,  she  started  out  on  the  prairie  to  follow  the  In- 
dians. She  suffered  terrible  hardship,  but  Providence 
brought  her  at  last  to  the  Osage  Mission,  whose  doors  are 
always  open  to  the  distressed.  And  here  she  found  a  ref- 
uge. A  strange  thing  happened  then.  While  Patrick 
O'Meara,  O'mie's  father,  was  far  from  home,  word  had 
reached  him  that  his  wife  was  dead.  Coming  down  the 
Arkansas  River,  O'Meara  chanced  to  fall  in  with  some 
Mexicans  who  had  a  battle  with  a  band  of  Indians  at  Paw- 
nee Rock.  With  these  Indians  was  a  little  white  boy, 
whom  O'Meara  rescued.  It  was  his  own  son,  although  he 
did  not  know  it,  and  he  brought  the  little  one  to  the  Mis- 
sion on  the  Neosho. 

"  Philip,  it  is  vouchsafed  to  some  of  us  to  know  a  bit 
of  heaven  here  on  earth.  Such  a  thing  came  to  Patrick 

135 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

O'Meara  when  he  found  his  wife  alive,  and  the  baby  boy 
was  restored  to  her.  They  were  happy  together  for  a  lit- 
tle while.  But  Mrs.  O'Meara  never  recovered  from  her 
hardships  on  the  prairie,  and  her  husband  was  killed  by  the 
Comanches  a  month  after  her  death.  Little  O'mie,  dying 
up  there  now,  was  left  an  orphan  at  the  Mission.  You 
have  heard  Mrs.  Gentry  tell  of  his  coming  here.  Your 
father  is  the  only  one  here  who  knows  anything  of  O'mie's 
history.  If  he  never  comes  back,  you  must  take  his  place." 

The  purple  shadows  of  twilight  were  folding  down 
upon  the  landscape.  In  the  soft  light  the  priest's  face 
looked  dark  and  set. 

"  Why  not  tell  me  now  what  father  knows  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  that  now,  Philip.  Some  day  I  may 
tell  you  another  story.  But  it  does  not  concern  you  or 
O'mie.  What  I  want  you  to  do  is  what  your  father  will 
do  if  he  comes  home.  If  he  should  not  come,  he  has 
written  in  his  will  what  you  must  do.  I  need  not  tell 
you  to  keep  this  to  yourself." 

"  Father  Le  Claire,  can  you  tell  me  anything  about 
Jean  Pahusca,  and  where  he  is  now?  " 

He  rose  hastily. 

"  We  must  not  stay  here."  Then,  kindly,  he  took  my 
hand.  "  Yes,  some  day,  but  not  now,  not  to-night." 
There  was  a  choking  in  his  voice,  and  I  thought  of  O'mie. 

We  stood  up  and  let  the  cool  evening  air  ripple  against 
our  faces.  The  Neosho  Valley  was  black  now.  Only 
here  and  there  did  we  catch  the  glitter  of  the  river.  The 
twilight  afterglow  was  still  pink,  but  the  sweep  of  the 
prairie  was  only  a  purple  blur  swathed  in  gray  mist.  Out 
of  this  purple  softness,  as  we  parted  the  bushes,  we  saw 
Marjie  hurrying  toward  us. 

"Phil,  Phil!"  she  cried,  "O'mie's  taken  a  change  for 
the  better.  He  's  been  asleep  for  three  hours,  and  now 

136 


O'MIE'S     CHOICE 

he  is  awake.  He  knew  Aunt  Candace  and  he  asked  for 
you.  The  doctor  says  he  has  a  chance  to  live.  Oh, 
Phil ! "  and  Marjie  burst  into  tears. 

Le  Claire  took  her  hand  and,  putting  it  through  my  arm, 
he  said,  gently  as  my  father  might  have  done,  "  You  are 
both  too  young  for  such  a  strain  as  this.  Oh,  this  civil 
war !  It  robs  you  of  your  childhood.  Too  soon,  too  soon, 
you  are  men  and  women.  Philip,  take  Marjory  home. 
Don't  hurry."  He  smiled  as  he  spoke.  "  It  will  do  you 
good  to  leave  O'mie  out  of  mind  for  a  little  while." 

Then  he  hurried  off  to  the  sick  room,  leaving  us  to- 
gether. It  seemed  years  since  that  quiet  April  sunset 
when  we  gathered  the  pink  flowers  out  in  the  draw,  and 
I  crowned  Marjie  my  queen.  It  was  now  late  June,  and 
the  first  little  yellow  leaves  were  on  the  cottonwoods, 
telling  that  midsummer  was  near. 

"  Marjie,"  I  said,  putting  the  hand  she  had  withdrawn, 
through  my  arm  again,  "  the  moon  is  just  coming  up. 
Let's  go  out  on  the  prairie  a  little  while.  Those  black 
shadows  down  there  distress  me.  I  must  have  some 
rest  from  darkness." 

We  walked  slowly  out  on  Cliff  Street  and  into  the  open 
prairie,  which  the  great  summer  moon  was  flooding  with 
its  soft  radiance.  No  other  light  is  ever  so  regal  as  the 
full  moon  above  the  prairie,  where  no  black  shadows  can 
checker  and  blot  out  and  hem  in  its  limitless  glory.  Marjie 
and  I  were  young  and  full  of  vigor,  but  the  steady  drain 
on  mind  and  heart,  and  the  days  and  nights  of  broken 
rest,  were  not^^without  effect.  And  yet  to-night,  with 
hope  once  morl  for  O'mie's  life,  with  a  sense  of  lifted 
care,  and  with  the  high  tide  of  the  year  pouring  out  its 
riches  round  about  us,  the  peace  of  the  prairies  fell  like 
a  benediction  on  us,  as  we  loitered  about  the  grassy  spaces, 
quiet  and  very  happy. 

137 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Then  the  care  for  others  turned  our  feet  homeward. 
I  must  relieve  Aunt  Candace  to-night  by  O'mie's  side,  and 
Marjie  must  be  with  her  mother.  The  moonlight  tempted 
us  to  linger  a  little  longer  as  we  passed  by  "  Rockport," 
and  we  parted  the  bushes  and  stood  on  our  old  playground 
rock. 

"  Marjie,  the  moonlight  makes  a  picture  of  you  always," 
I  said  gently. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  gazed  out  across  the  valley, 
above  whose  dark  greenery  the  silvery  mists  lay  fold 
on  fold.  When  she  turned  her  face  to  mine,  something 
in  her  eyes  called  up  in  me  that  inspiration  that  had  come 
to  be  a  part  of  my  thought  of  her,  that  sense  of  a  woman's 
worth  and  of  her  right  to  tenderest  guardianship. 

"  Marjie" — <I  put  both  arms  around  her  and  drew  her 
to  me  —  "  the  best  thing  in  the  world  is  a  good  girl,  and 
you  are  the  best  girl  in  the  world."  I  held  her  close.  It 
was  no  longer  a  boy's  admiration,  but  a  man's  love  that 
filled  my  soul  that  night.  Marjie  drew  gently  away. 

"  We  must  go  now,  Phil,  indeed  we  must.  Mother 
needs  me." 

Oh,  I  could  wait  her  time.  I  took  her  arm  and  led  her 
out  to  the  street.  The  bushes  closed  behind  us,  and  we 
went  our  way  together.  It  was  well  we  could  not  look 
back  upon  the  rock.  We  had  hardly  left  it  when  two 
figures  climbed  up  from  the  ledge  below  and  stood  where 
we  had  been  —  two  for  whom  the  night  had  no  charm  and 
the  prairie  and  valley  had  no  beauty,  a  low-browed,  black- 
eyed  girl  with  a  heart  full  of  jealousy,  and  a  tall,  graceful, 
picturesquely  handsome  young  Indian.  They  had  joined 
forces,  just  as  I  had  once  felt  they  would  sometime  do. 
As  I  came  whistling  up  the  street  on  my  way  home  I 
paused  by  the  bushes,  half  inclined  to  go  beyond  them 
again.  I  was  happy  in  every  fiber  of  my  being.  But  duty 

138 


O'MIE'S    CHOICE 

prodded  me  sharply  to  move  on.  I  believe  now  that  Jean 
Pahusca  would  have  choked  the  life  out  of  me  had  I  met 
him  face  to  face  that  moonlit  night.  Heaven  turns  our 
paths  away  from  many  an  unknown  peril,  and  we  credit 
it  all  to  our  own  choice  of  ways. 

Slowly  but  steadily  O'mie  came  back  to  us.  So  far  had 
he  gone  down  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  he  groped  with 
difficulty  up  toward  the  light  again.  He  slept  much,  but 
it  was  life-giving  sleep,  and  he  was  not  overcome  by  de- 
lirium after  that  turning  point  in  his  illness.  I  think  I 
never  fully  knew  my  father's  sister  till  in  those  weeks 
beside  the  sickbed.  It  was  not  the  medicine,  nor  the 
careful  touch,  it  was  herself  —  her  wholesome,  hopeful, 
trustful  spirit  —  that  seemed  to  enter  into  the  very  life 
of  the  sick  one,  and  build  him  to  health.  I  had  rarely 
known  illness,  I  who  had  muscles  like  iron,  and  the 
frame  of  a  giant.  My  father  was  a  man  of  wonderful 
vigor.  It  was  not  until  O'mie  was  brought  to  our  house 
that  I  understood  why  he  should  have  been  trusted  to 
no  one  else. 

We  longed  to  know  his  story.  The  town  had  settled 
into  its  old  groove.  The  victories  of  Gettysburg  and 
Vicksburg  had  thrilled  us,  as  the  loss  at  Chancellorsville 
had  depressed  our  spirits;  and  the  war  was  our  constant 
theme.  And  then  the  coming  and  going  of  traders  and 
strangers  on  the  old  trail,  the  undercurrent  of  anxiety  lest 
another  conspiracy  should  gather,  the  Quantrill  raid  at 
Lawrence,  all  helped  to  keep  us  from  lethargy.  We  had 
had  our  surprise,  however.  Strangers  had  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  themselves  to  the  home  guard  now.  But  we  were 
softened  toward  our  own  townspeople.  They  were  very 
discreet,  and  we  must  meet  and  do  business  with  them 
daily.  For  the  sake  of  young  Tell  and  Jim,  we  who 

139 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

knew  would  say  nothing.  Jean  came  into  town  at  rare 
intervals,  meeting  the  priest  down  in  the  chapel.  Attend- 
ing to  his  own  affairs,  walking  always  like  a  very  king, 
or  riding  as  only  a  Plains  Indian  can  ride,  he  came  and 
went  unmolested.  I  never  could  understand  that  strange 
power  he  had  of  commanding  our  respect.  He  seldom 
saw  Marjie,  and  her  face  blanched  at  the  mention  of  his 
name.  I  do  not  know  when  he  last  appeared  in  our  town 
that  summer.  Nobody  could  keep  track  of  his  move- 
ments. But  I  do  know  that  after  the  priest's  departure, 
his  disappearance  was  noted,  and  the  daylight  never  saw 
him  in  Springvale  again.  What  the  dark  hours  of  the 
night  could  have  told  is  another  story. 

With  O'mie  out  of  danger,  Le  Claire  left  us.  His 
duties,  he  told  us,  lay  far  to  the  west.  He  might  go  to 
the  Kiowas  or  the  Cheyennes.  In  any  event,  it  would 
be  long  before  he  came  again. 

"I  need  not  ask  you,  Philip,  to  take  good  care  of 
O'mie.  He  could  not  have  better  care.  You  will  guard 
his  interests.  Until  you  know  more  than  you  do  now, 
you  will  say  nothing  to  him  or  any  one  else  of  what  I 
have  told  you." 

He  looked  steadily  into  my  eyes,  and  I  understood 
him. 

"I  think  Jean  Pahusca  will  never  trouble  you,  nor 
even  come  here  now.  I  have  my  reasons  for  thinking 
so.  But,  Philip,  if  you  should  know  of  his  being  here, 
keep  on  your  guard.  He  is  a  man  of  more  than  savage 
nature.  What  he  loves,  he  will  die  for.  What  he  hates, 
he  will  kill.  Cam  Gentry  is  right.  The  worst  blood  of 
the  Kiowas  and  of  the  French  nationality  fills  his  veins. 
Be  careful." 

Brave  little  O'mie  struggled  valiantly  for  health  again. 
He  was  patient  and  uncomplaining,  but  the  days  ran 

140 


O'MIE'S    CHOICE 

into  weeks  before  his  strength  began  to  increase.  Only 
one  want  was  not  supplied :  he  longed  for  the  priest. 

"  You  're  all  so  good,  it 's  mighty  little  in  me  to  say  it, 
an*  Dr.  Hemingway's  gold,  twenty-four  karat  gold;  but 
me  hair  's  red,  an*  me  rale  name  's  O'Meara,  an*  naturally  I 
long  for  the  praist,  although  I  'm  a  proper  Presbyterian." 

"  How  about  Brother  Dodd?  "  I  inquired. 

"All  the  love  in  his  heart  fur  me  put  in  the  shell  of 
a  mustard  seed  would  rattle  round  loike  a  walnut  in  a 
tin  bushel  box,  begorra,"  the  sick  boy  declared. 

It  was  long  before  he  could  talk  much  and  we  did  not 
ask  a  question  we  could  avoid,  but  waited  his  own  time 
to  know  how  he  had  been  taken  from  us  and  how  he 
had  found  himself  a  prisoner  in  that  cavern  whence  we 
had  barely  cheated  Death  of  its  pitiful  victim.  As  he 
could  bear  it  he  told  us,  at  length,  of  his  part  in  the 
night  the  town  was  marked  for  doom.  Propped  up  on 
his  pillows,  his  face  to  the  open  east  window,  his  thin, 
white  hands  folded,  he  talked  quietly  as  of  a  thing  in 
which  he  had  had  little  part. 

"  Ye  see,  Phil,  the  Almighty  made  us  all  different,  so 
He  could  know  us,  an'  use  us  when  He  wanted  some 
partic'lar  thing  that  some  partic'lar  one  could  do.  When 
folks  puts  on  a  uniform  in  their  dress  or  their  thinkin', 
they  belong  to  one  av  two  classes  —  them  as  is  goin'  to 
the  devil  like  convicts  an'  narrow  churchmen,  or  them 
as  is  goin'  after  'em  hard  to  bring  'em  into  line  again, 
like  soldiers  an'  sisters  av  charity;  an'  they  just  have  to 
act  as  one  man.  But  mainly  we  're  singular  number. 
The  Lord  did  n't  give  me  size." 

He  looked  up  at  my  broad  shoulders.  I  had  carried 
him  in  my  arms-  from  his  bed  to  the  east  window  day 
after  day. 

"  I  must  do  me  own  stunt  in  me  own  way.  You  know 

141 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

mebby,  how  I  tagged  thim  strangers  till,  if  they'd  had 
the  chance  at  me  they'd  have  fixed  me.  Specially  that 
Dick  Yeager,  the  biggest  av  the  two  who  come  to  the 
tavern." 

"  The  chance !  Did  n't  they  have  their  full  swing  at 
you?" 

"  Well,  no,  not  regular  an*  proper,"  he  replied. 

I  wondered  if  the  cruelty  he  had  suffered  might  not 
have  injured  his  brain  and  impaired  his  memory. 

"  You  know  I  peeked  through  that  hole  up  in  the  shop 
that  Conlow  seems  to  have  left  fur  such  as  me.  Honor- 
able business,  av  coorse.  But  Tell  and  Jim,  they  was 
hid  behind  the  stack  av  wagon  wheels  in  the  dark  corner 
—  just  as  honorable  an*  high-spirited  as  meself,  on  their 
social  level.  I  was  a  high-grader  up  on  that  ladder. 
Well,  annyhow,  I  peeked  an'  eavesdropped,  as  near  as 
I  could  get  to  the  eaves  av  the  shop,  an'  I  tould  Father 
Le  Claire  all  I  could  foind  out.  An'  then  he  put  it  on 
me  to  do  my  work.  *  You  can  be  spared,'  he  says.  '  If 
it's  life  and  death,  ye '11  choose  the  better  part.'  Phil, 
it  was  laid  on  all  av  us  to  choose  that  night." 

His  thin,  blue-veined  hand  sought  mine  where  he  lay 
reclining  against  the  pillows.  I  took  it  in  my  big  right 
hand,  the  hand  that  could  hold  Jean  Pahusca  with  a  grip 
of  iron. 

"  There  was  only  one  big  enough  an'  brainy  enough 
an'  brave  enough  to  lead  the  crowd  to  save  this  town  an* 
that  was  Philip  Baronet.  There  was  only  one  who  could 
advise  him  well  an'  that  was  Cam  Gentry.  Poor  old 
Cam,  too  nearsighted  to  tell  a  cow  from  a  catfish  tin 
feet  away.  Without  you,  Cam  and  the  boys  could  n't 
have  done  a  thing. 

"  Can  ye  picture  what  would  be  down  thece  now?  I 
guess  not,  fur  you  'd  not  be  making  pictures  now.  You  'd 


O'MIE'S    CHOICE 

be  a  picture  yourself,  the  kind  they  put  on  the  carbolic 
acid  bottle  an*  mark  'pizen.'  " 

O'mie  paused  and  looked  out  dreamily  across  the  valley 
to  the  east  plains  beyond  them. 

"  I  can't  tell  how  fast  things  wint  through  me  moind 
that  night.  You  did  some  thinkin'  yourself,  an'  you  know. 
'  I  can't  do  Phil's  part  if  I  stay  here,'  I  raisoned,  '  an' 
bedad,  I  don't  belave  he  can  do  my  part.  Bein'  little 
counts  sometimes.  It 's  laid  on  me  to  be  the  sacrifice, 
an*  I  '11  kape  me  promise  an'  choose  the  better  part.  I  '11 
cut  an'  run.' " 

He  looked  up  at  my  questioning  face  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye. 

"  '  There  's  only  one  to  save  this  town.  That 's  Phil's 
stunt,'  I  says;  *  an*  there's  only  one  to  save  Marjie. 
That 's  my  stunt.' " 

I  caught  my  breath,  for  my  heart  stood  still,  and  I  felt 
I  must  strangle. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Thomas  O'Meara  —  ?  "  I  could 
get  no  further. 

"  I  mane,  either  you  or  me  's  got  to  tell  this.  If  you 
know  it  better  'n  I  do,  go  ahead."  And  then  more  gently 
he  went  on :  "  Yes,  I  mane  to  say,  kape  still,  dear ;  I  'm 
not  very  strong  yet.  If  I  'd  gone  up  to  Cliff  Street  afther 
you  to  come  to  her,  she'd  be  gone.  If  Jean  got  hands 
on  her  an'  she  struggled  or  screamed,  as  she'd  be  like 
to  do,  bein'  a  sensible  girl,  he  had  that  murderous  little 
short  knife,  an'  he'd  swore  solemn  he'd  have  her  or 
her  scalp.  He 's  not  got  her,  nor  her  scalp,  nor  that 
knife  nather  now.  I  kept  that  much  from  doin'  harm. 
I  dunno  where  the  cruel  thing  wint  to,  but  it  wint,  all 
right. 

"  And  do  ye  mane  to  say,  Philip  Baronet,  that  ye 
thought  I  'd  lost  me  nerve  an'  was  crude  enough  to  fall 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

in  wid  a  nest  av  thim  Copperheads  an*  let  Jem  do  me  to 
me  ruin?  Or  did  you  think  His  Excellency,  the  Reverend 
Dodd  was  right,  an*  I'd  cut  for  cover  till  the  fuss  was 
over?  Well,  honestly  now,  I  'm  not  that  kind  av  an  Irish- 
man." 

My  mind  was  in  a  tumult  as  I  listened.  I  wondered 
how  O'mie  could  be  so  calm  when  I  durst  not  trust  my- 
self to  speak. 

"  So  I  run  home,  thinkin'  ivery  jump,  an*  I  grabbed 
the  little  girl's  waterproof  cloak.  Your  lady  friends' 
wraps  comes  in  handy  sometimes.  Don't  niver  despise 
'em,  Phil,  nor  the  ladies  nather.  You  woman-hater ! " 
O'mie's  laugh  was  like  old  times  and  very  good  to  hear. 

"  I  flung  that  thing  round  me,  hood  on  me  brown  curls, 
an'  all,  an'  then  I  flew.  I  made  the  ground  just  three 
times  in  thim  four  blocks  and  a  half  to  Judson's.  You 
know  how  the  kangaroo  looks  in  the  geography  picture 
av  Australia,  illustratin'  the  fauna  an'  flora,  with  a  tall, 
thin  tree  beyont,  showin'  lack  of  vegetation  in  that  tropic, 
an'  a  little  quilly  cus  they  call  a  ornithorynchus,  its  mouth 
like  Jim  Conlow's?  Well,  no  kangaroo 'd  had  enough 
self-respect  to  follow  me  that  night.  I  caught  Marjie 
just  in  time,  an'  I  puts  off  before  her  toward  her  home. 
At  the  corner  I  quit  kangarooin*  an'  walks  quick  an'  a 
little  timid-like,  just  Marjie  to  a  dimple.  If  you  'd  been 
there,  you  'd  wanted  to  put  some  more  pink  flowers  round 
where  they  'd  do  the  most  good." 

I  squeezed  his  hand. 

"  Quit  that,  you  ugly  bear.  That 's  a  lady's  hand  yet 
a  whoile  an'  can't  stand  too  much  pressure. 

"  It  was  to  save  her  loife,  Phil."  O'mie  spoke  solemnly 
now.  "  You  could  save  the  town.  I  could  n't.  I  could 
save  her.  You  could  n't.  In  a  minute,  there  in  the  dark 
by  the  gate,  Jean  Pahusca  grabs  me  round  me  dainty 

144 


O'MIE'S    CHOICE 

waist.  His  horse  was  ready  by  him  an*  he  swung  me 
into  the  saddle,  not  harsh,  but  graceful  like,  an*  gintle.  I 
never  said  a  word,  but  gave  a  awful  gasp  like  I  had  n't 
no  words,  appreciative  enough.  *  I  'm  saving'  you,  Star- 
face,'  he  says.  '  The  Copperheads  will  burn  your 
mother's  house  an*  the  Kiowas  will  come  and  steal  Star- 
face  — '  an*  he  held  me  close  as  if  he  would  protect  me  — 
he  got  over  that  later  —  an*  I  properly  fainted.  That 's 
the  only  way  the  abducted  princess  can  do  in  the  novel  — 
just  faint.  It  saves  hearin'  what  you  don't  want  to  know. 
An'  me  size  just  suited  the  case.  Don't  never  take  on 
airs,  you  big  hulkin'  fellow.  No  graceful  prince  is  iver 
goin'  to  haul  you  over  the  saddle-bow  thinkin'  you  're  the 
choice  av  his  heart.  It  saved  Marjie,  an'  it  got  Jean 
clear  av  town  before  he  found  his  mistake,  which  wa'n't 
bad  for  Springvale.  Down  by  Fingal's  Creek  I  come  to, 
an*  we  had  a  rumpus.  Bein'  a  dainty  girl,  I  naturally 
objected  to  goin'  into  that  swirlin'  water,  though  I  did  n't 
object  to  Jean's  goin' — to  eternity.  In  the  muss  I  lost 
me  cloak  —  the  badge  av  me  business  there.  I  never  could 
do  nothin'  wid  thim  cussed  hooks  an'  eyes  on  a  collar  an' 
the  thing  wasn't  anchored  securely  at  me  throat.  It 
was  awful  then.  I  can't  remember  it  all.  But  it  was 
dark,  and  Jean  had  found  me  out,  and  the  waters  was 
deep  and  swift.  The  horse  got  away  on  the  bank  an* 
slid  back,  I  think.  It  must  have  been  then  it  galloped 
up  to  town ;  but  findin'  Jean  did  n't  follow,  it  came  back 
to  him.  I  did  n't  know  annything  fur  some  toime.  I  'd 
got  too  much  av  Fingal's  Creek  mixed  into  me  constitu- 
tion an'  by-laws  to  kape  my  thoughts  from  floatin'  too. 
I  '11  never  know  rightly  whin  I  rode  an*  whin  I  was 
dragged,  an'  whin  I  walked.  It  was  a  runnin'  fight  av 
infantry  and  cavalry,  such  as  the  Neosho  may  never  see 
again,  betwixt  the  two  av  us." 

10  145 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

Blind,  trustful  fool  that  I  had  been,  thinking  after  all 
Le  Claire's  warnings  that  Jean  had  been  a  good,  loyal, 
chivalrous  Indian,  protecting  Marjie  from  harm. 

"  And  to  think  we  have  thought  all  this  time  there  were 
a  dozen  Rebels  making  away  with  you,  and  never  dreamed 
you  had  deliberately  put  yourself  into  the  hands  of  the 
strongest  and  worst  enemy  you  could  have !  " 

"  It  was  to  save  a  woman,  Phil,"  O'mie  said  simply. 
"  He  could  only  kill  me.  He  would  n't  have  been  that 
good  to  her.  You  Jd  done  the  same  yoursilf  to  save  anny 
woman,  aven  a  stranger  to  you.  Wait  an'  see." 

How  easily  forgotten  things  come  back  when  we  least 
expect  them.  There  came  to  me,  as  O'mie  spoke,  the 
memory  of  my  dream  the  night  after  Jean  had  sought 
Marjie's  life  out  on  the  Red  Range  prairie.  The  night 
after  I  talked  with  my  father  of  love  and  of  my 
mother.  That  night  two  women  whom  I  had  never  seen 
before  were  in  my  dreams,  and  I  had  struggled  to  save 
them  from  peril  as  though  they  were  of  my  own  flesh  and 
blood. 

"  You  will  do  it,"  O'mie  went  on.  "  You  were  doing 
more.  Who  was  it  wint  down  along  the  creek  side  av 
town  where  the  very  worst  pro-slavery  fellows  is  always 
coiled  and  ready  to  spring,  wint  in  the  dark  to  wake  up 
folks  that  lived  betwixt  them  on  either  side,  who  was 
ready  to  light  on  'em  at  a  minute's  notice?  Who  wint 
upstairs  above  thim  as  was  gettin*  ready  to  burn  'em  in 
their  beds,  an*  walked  quiet  and  cool  where  one  wrong 
step  meant  to  be  throttled  in  the  dark?  Don't  talk  to  me 
av  courage." 

"  But,  O'mie,  it  was  all  chance  with  us.  You  went 
where  danger  was  certain." 

"  It  was  my  part,  Phil,  an'  I  ain't  no  shirker  just  be- 
cause I  'm  not  tin  feet  tall  an'  don't  have  to  be  weighed 


O'MIE'S     CHOICE 

on  Judson's  stock  scales."     O'mie  rested  awhile  on  the 
pillows.     Then  he  continued  his  story. 

"  They  was  more  or  less  border  raidin*  betwixt  Jean 
an*  me  till  we  got  beyont  the  high  cliff  above  the  Her- 
mit's Cave.  When  I  came  to  after  one  of  his  fists  had 
bumped  me  head  he  was  urgin'  his  pony  to  what  it  did  n't 
want.  The  river  was  roarin'  below  somewhere  an*  it 
was  black  as  the  grave's  insides.  It  was  way  up  there 
that  in  a  minute's  lull  in  the  hostilities,  I  caught  the 
faint  refrain: 

'  Does  the  star-spangled  banner  yit  wave, 

O'er  the  land  av  the  free  and  the  home  av  the  brave? ' 

"  I  did  n't  see  your  lights.  They  was  tin  thousand  star- 
spangled  banners  wavin'  before  me  eyes  ivery  second. 
But  that  strain  av  song  put  new  courage  into  me  soul 
though  I  had  no  notion  what  it  really  meant.  I  was  half 
dead  an'  wantin'  to  go  the  other  half  quick,  an*  it  was 
like  a  drame,  till  that  song  sent  a  sort  of  life-givin'  pulse 
through  me.  The  next  minute  we  were  goin*  over  an' 
over  an'  over,  betwane  rocks,  an*  hanging  to  trees,  down, 
down,  down,  wid  that  murderous  river  roarin'  hungry 
below  us.  Jean  jumpin'  from  place  to  place  an*  me 
clingin*  to  him  an'  hittin'  iverything  that  could  be  hit  at 
ivery  jump.  An*  then  come  darkness  over  me  again. 
There  was  a  light  somewhere  when  I  come  to.  I  was 
free  an'  I  made  a  quick  spring.  I  got  that  knife,  an'  like 
a  flash  I  slid  the  blade  down  a  crack  somewhere.  An' 
then  he  tied  me  solid,  an'  standin'  over  me  he  says  slow 
an'  cruel :  '  You  —  may  —  stay  —  here  —  till  —  you  — 
starve  —  to  —  death.  Nobody  —  can  —  get  —  to  —  you 
—  but  —  me  —  an'  —  I  'm  —  niver  —  comin'  —  back.  I 
hate  you.'  An'  his  eyes  were  just  loike  that  noight  whin 

147 


THE     PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

I  found  him  with  thim  faded  pink  flowers  out  on  the 
prairie." 

"  O'mie,  dear,  you  are  the  greatest  hero  I  ever  heard 
of.  You  poor,  beaten,  tortured  sacrifice." 

I  put  my  arm  around  his  shoulder  and  my  tears  fell 
on  his  red  hair. 

"  I  did  n't  do  no  more  than  ivery  true  American  will 
do  —  fight  an*  die  to  protect  his  home ;  or  if  not  his  'n,  some 
other  man's.  Whin  the  day  av  choosin'  comes  we  can't 
do  no  more'n  to  take  our  places.  We  all  do  it.  Whin 
Jean  put  it  on  me  to  lay  there  helpless  an'  die  o'  thirst, 
I  know'd  I  could  do  it.  Same  as  you  know'd  you'd 
outwit  that  gang  ready  to  burn  an'  kill,  that  I'd  run 
from.  I  just  looked  straight  up  at  Jean  —  the  light  was 
gettin*  dim  —  an'  I  says,  '  You  —  may  —  go  —  plum  —  to 

—  the  —  divil,  —  but  —  you  —  can't  —  hurt  —  that  —  part 

—  av  —  me  —  that 's  —  never  —  hungry  —  nor  —  thirsty/ 
When  you  git  face  to  face  wid  a  thing  like  that,"  O'mie 
spoke   reverently,    "somehow   the   everlastin'   arms,    Dr. 
Hemingway  's  preached  of,  is  strong  underneath  you.     The 
light  wint  out,  an'  Jean  in  his  still  way  had  slid  off,  an' 
I  was  alone.     Alone  wid  me  achin'  and  me  bonds,  an'  wid 
a  burmn'  longin'  fur  water,  wid  a  wish  to  go  quick  if  I 
must  go;  but  most  av  all  —  don't  never  furgit  it,  Phil, 
whin  the  thing  overtakes  you  aven  in  your  strength  — 
most  av  all,  above  all  suff erin*  and  natural  longin'  to  live 

—  there  comes  the  reality  av  the  words  your  Aunt  Candace 
taught  us  years  ago  in  the  little  school : 

" '  Though  I  walk  through  the  valley  av  the  shadow  av 
death,  I  will  fear  no  evil.' 

"  I  called  for  you,  Phil,  in  my  misery,  an*  I  know  'd 
somehow  you  'd  hear  me.  An'  you  did  come." 

148 


O'MIE'S    CHOICE 

His  thin  hand  closed  over  mine,  and  we  sat  long  in 
silence  —  two  boys  whom  the  hand  of  Providence  was 
leading  into  strange,  hard  lines,  shaping  us  each  for  the 
work  the  years  of  our  manhood  were  waiting  to  bring 
to  us. 


149 


CHAPTER    XI 
GOLDEN     DAYS 

There  are  days  that  are  kind 

As  a  mother  to  man,  showing  pathways  that  wind 
Out  and  in,  like  a  dream,  by  some  stream  of  delight; 
Never  hinting  of  aught  that  they  hold  to  affright; 
Only  luring  us  on,  since  the  way  must  be  trod, 
Over  meadows  of  green  with  their  velvety  sod, 
To  the  steeps,  that  are  harder  to  climb,  far  before. 
There  are  nights  so  enchanting,  they  seem  to  restore 
The  original  beauty  of  Eden;  so  tender, 
They  woo  every  soul  to  a  willing  surrender 
Of  feverish  longing;  so  holy  withal, 
That  a  broad  benediction  seems  sweetly  to  fall 
On  the  world. 

WE  were  a  busy  folk  in  those  years  that  followed  the 
close  of  the  war.  The  prairies  were  boundless, 
and  the  constant  line  of  movers'  wagons  reaching  out 
endlessly  on  the  old  trail,  with  fathers  and  mothers  and 
children,  children,  children,  like  the  ghosts  of  Banquo's 
lineal  issue  to  King  Macbeth,  seemed  numerous  enough 
to  people  the  world  and  put  to  the  plough  every  foot  of 
the  virgin  soil  of  the  beautiful  Plains.  With  the  down- 
fall of  slavery  the  strife  for  commercial  supremacy  began 
in  earnest  here,  and  there  are  no  idle  days  in  Kansas. 

When  I  returned  home  after  two  years'  schooling  in 
Massachusetts,  I  found  many  changes.  I  had  beaten  my 
bars  like  a  caged  thing  all  those  two  years.  Rockport, 
where  I  made  my  home  and  spent  much  of  my  time,  was 

150 


GOLDEN     DAYS 

so  unlike  Springvale,  so  wofully  and  pridefully  ignorant 
of  all  Kansas,  so  unable  to  get  any  notion  of  my  beautiful 
prairies  and  of  the  free-spirited,  cultured  folk  I  knew  there, 
that  I  suffered  out  my  time  there  and  was  let  off  a  little 
early  for  good  behavior.  Only  one  person  did  I  know 
who  had  any  real  interest  in  my  West,  a  tall,  dark-eyed, 
haughty  young  lady,  to  whom  I  talked  of  Kansas  by  the 
hour.  Her  mother,  who  was  officiously  courteous  to  me, 
did  n't  approve  of  that  subject,  but  the  daughter  listened 
eagerly. 

When  I  left  Rockport,  Rachel  —  that  was  her  name, 
Rachel  Melrose  —  asked  me  when  I  was  coming  back.  I 
assured  her,  never,  and  then  courteously  added  if  she 
would  come  to  Kansas. 

"  Well,  I  may  go,"  she  replied,  "  not  to  your  Springvale, 
but  to  my  aunt  in  Topeka  for  a  visit  next  Fall.  Will  you 
come  up  to  Topeka?  " 

Of  course,  I  would  go  to  Topeka,  but  might  she  not 
come  to  Springvale?  There  were  the  best  people  on 
earth  in  Springvale.  I  could  introduce  her  to  boys  who 
were  gentlemen  to  the  core.  I  'd  lived  and  laughed  and 
suffered  with  them,  and  I  knew. 

"  But  I  should  n't  care  for  any  of  them  except  you." 
Rachel's  voice  trembled  and  I  couldn't  help  seeing  the 
tears  in  her  proud  dark  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  've  a  girl  of  my  own  there,"  I  said  impulsively, 
for  I  was  always  longing  for  Marjie,  "  but  Clayton  Ander- 
son and  Dave  Mead  are  both  college  men  now."  And 
then  I  saw  how  needlessly  rude  I  had  been. 

"  Of  course  I  want  you  to  come  to  Springvale.  Come 
to  our  house.  Aunt  Candace  will  make  you  royally  wel- 
come. The  Baronets  and  Melroses  have  been  friends  for 
generations.  I  only  wanted  the  boys  to  know  you;  I 
should  be  proud  to  present  my  friend  to  them.  I  would 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

take  care  of  you.  You  have  been  so  kind  to  me  this  year, 
I  should  be  glad  to  do  much  for  you."  I  had  taken  her 
hand  to  say  good-bye. 

"  And  you  would  let  that  other  girl  take  care  of  herself, 
would  n't  you,  while  I  was  there  ?  Promise  me  that  when 
I  go  to  Kansas  you  will  come  up  to  Topeka  to  see  me, 
and  when  I  go  to  your  town,  if  I  do,  you  will  not  neglect 
me  but  will  let  that  Springvale  girl  entirely  alone." 

I  did  not  know  much  of  women  then  —  nor  now  — 
although  I  thought  then  I  knew  everything.  I  might 
have  read  behind  that  fine  aristocratic  face  a  supremely 
selfish  nature,  a  nature  whose  pleasure  increased  only  as 
her  neighbor's  pleasure  decreased.  There  are  such  minds 
in  the  world. 

I  turned  to  her,  and  taking  both  of  her  willing  hands  in 
mine,  I  said  frankly :  "  When  you  visit  your  aunt,  I  '11  be 
glad  to  see  you  there.  If  you  visit  my  aunt  I  would  be 
proud  to  show  you  every  courtesy.  As  for  that  little 
girl,  well,  when  you  see  her  you  will  understand.  She 
has  a  place  all  her  own  with  me."  I  looked  straight  into 
her  eyes  as  I  said  this. 

She  smiled  coquettishly.  "  Oh,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  her," 
she  said  indifferently ;  "  I  can  hold  my  own  with  any  Kan- 
sas, girl,  I  'm  sure." 

She  was  dangerously  handsome,  with  a  responsive 
face,  a  winning  smile  and  gracious  manners.  She 
seemed  never  to  accept  anything  as  a  gift,  but  to  take 
what  was  her  inherent  right  of  admiration  and  devotion. 
When  I  bade  her  good-bye  a  look  of  sadness  was  in 
her  eyes.  It  rebuked  my  spirit  somehow,  although 
Heaven  knows  I  had  given  her  no  cause  to  miss  me.  But 
my  carriage  was  waiting  and  I  hurried  away.  For  a 
moment  only  her  image  lingered  with  me,  and  then  I  for- 
got her  entirely;  for  every  turn  of  the  wheel  was  bring- 

152 


GOLDEN     DAYS 

ing  me  to  Kansas,  to  the  prairies,  to  the  beautiful  Neosho 
Valley,  to  the  boys  again,  to  my  father  and  home,  but  most 
of  all  to  Marjie. 

It  was  twenty  months  since  I  had  seen  her.  She  had 
spent  a  year  in  Ohio  in  the  Girls'  College  at  Glendale,  and 
had  written  me  she  would  reach  Springvale  a  month  be- 
fore I  did.  After  that  I  had  not  heard  from  her  except 
through  a  marked  copy  of  the  Springvale  Weekly  Press, 
telling  of  her  return.  She  .had  not  marked  that  item,  but 
had  pencilled  the  news  that  "Philip  Baronet  would  return 
in  three  weeks  from  Massachusetts,  where  he  had  been 
enjoying  the  past  two  years  in  school." 

Enjoying!  Under  this  Marjie  had  written  in  girlish 
hand,  "  Hurry  up,  Phil." 

On  the  last  stage  of  my  journey  I  was  wild  with  delight. 
It  was  springtime  on  the  prairies,  and  a  verdure  clothed 
them  with  its  richest  garments.  I  did  not  note  the  grow- 
ing crops,  and  the  many  little  freeholds  now,  where  there 
had  been  only  open  unclaimed  land  two  years  before.  I 
was  longing  for  the  Plains  again,  for  one  more  ride,  reck- 
less and  free,  across  their  broad  stretches,  for  one  more 
gorgeous  sunset  out  on  Red  Range,  one  more  soft,  iri- 
descent twilight  purpling  down  to  the  evening  darkness 
as  I  had  seen  it  on  "  Rockport "  all  those  years.  How 
the  real  Rockport,  the  Massachusetts  town,  faded  from 
me,  and  the  sea,  and  the  college  halls,  and  city  buildings. 
The  steam  and  steel  and  brick  and  marble  of  an  older 
civilization,  all  gave  place  to  Nature's  broad  handiwork 
and  the  generous-hearted,  capable,  unprejudiced  people  of 
this  new  West.  However  crude  and  plain  Springvale 
might  have  seemed  to  an  Eastern  boy  suddenly  trans- 
planted here,  it  was  fair  and  full  of  delight  for  me. 

The  stage  driver,  Dever,  by  name,  was  a  stranger  to 
me,  but  he  knew  all  about  my  coming.  Also  he  was 

153 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

proud  to  be  the  first  to  give  me  the  freshest  town  gossip. 
That  's  the  stage-driver's  right  divine  always.  I  was 
eager  to  hear  of  everybody  and  in  this  forty  miles*  ride 
I  was  completely  informed.  The  story  rambled  some- 
what aimlessly  from  topic  to  topic,  but  it  never  lagged. 

"Did  I  know  Judson?  He'd  got  a  controlling  interest 
now  in  Whately's  store.  He  was  great  after  money,  Jud- 
son was.  They  do  say  he  's  been  a  little  off  the  square 
getting  hold  of  the  store.  The  widder  Whately  kept  only 
about  one-third,  or  maybe  one-fourth  of  the  stock.  Mrs. 
Whately,  she  wa'  n't  no  manager.  Marjie  'd  do  better, 
but  Marjie  wa'  n't  twenty  yet.  And  yet  if  all  they  say 's 
true  she  would  n't  need  to  manage.  Judson  is  about  the 
sprucest  widower  in  town,  though  he  did  seem  to  take 
it  so  hard  when  poor  Mis'  Judson  was  taken."  She  never 
overcame  the  loss  of  her  baby,  and  the  next  Summer  they 
put  her  out  in  the  prairie  graveyard  beside  it.  "  But  Jud- 
son now,  he  's  shyin'  round  Marjie  real  coltish. 

"  It  Jd  be  fine  fur  her,  of  course,"  my  driver  went  on, 
"  an'  she  was  old  a-plenty  to  marry.  Marjie  was  a 
mighty  purty  girl.  The  boys  was  nigh  crazy  about  her. 
Did  I  know  her?  " 

I  did;  oh,  yes,  I  remembered  her. 

"  They 's  another  chap  hangin'  round  her,  too ;  his 
name  's  —  lemme  see,  uh  —  common  enough  name  when 
I  was  a  boy  back  in  Kentucky  —  uh  —  Tillhurst,  Richard 
Tillhurst.  Tall,  peaked,  thin-visaged  feller.  Come  out 
from  Virginny  to  Illinois.  Got  near  dead  with  consump- 
tion 'nd  come  on  to  Kansas  to  die.  Saw  Springvale  'nd 
thought  better  of  it  right  away.  Was  teachin'  school  and 
payin'  plenty  of  attention  to  the  girls,  especially  Marjie. 
They  was  an  old  man  Tillhurst  when  I  was  a  boy.  He 
was  from  Virginny,  too  —  "  but  I  pass  that  story. 

"Tell  Mapleson's  pickin'  up  sence  he's  got  the  post- 
154 


GOLDEN     DAYS 

office  up  in  the  *  Last  Chance  ' ;  put  that  doggery  out  'n  his 
sullar,  had  in  wall  paper  now,  an'  drugs  an'  seeds,  an*  no- 
body was  right  sure  where  he  got  his  funds  to  stock  up, 
so  —  they  was  some  sort  of  story  goin'  about  a  half-breed 
named  Pahusky  when  I  first  come  here,  bein*  'sociated  with 
Mapleson  —  Cam  Gentry  's  same  old  Cam,  squintin*  round 
an'  jolly  as  ever.  O'mie?  Oh,  he  's  leadin*  the  band  now. 
By  jinks,  that  band  of  his  'n  will  just  take  the  cake  when 
it  goes  up  to  Topeky  this  Fall  to  the  big  political  speak- 
in's."  On  and  on  the  driver  went,  world  without  end,  un- 
til we  caught  the  first  faint  line  along  the  west  that 
marked  the  treetops  of  the  Neosho  Valley.  We  were  on 
the  Santa  Fe  Trail  now,  and  we  were  coming  to  the  east 
bluff  where  I  had  first  seen  the  little  Whately  girl  climb 
out  of  the  big  wagon  and  stretch  the  stiffness  out  of 
her  fat  little  legs.  The  stage  horses  were  bracing 
for  the  triumphal  entry  into  town,  when  a  gang  of  young 
outlaws  rushed  up  over  the  crest  of  the  east  slope.  They 
turned  our  team  square  across  the  way  and  in  mock  stage- 
robbery  style  called  a  halt.  The  driver  threw  up  his  hands 
in  mock  terror  and  begged  for  mercy,  which  was  granted 
if  he  would  deliver  up  one  Philip  Baronet,  student  and 
tenderfoot.  But  I  was  already  down  from  the  stage  and 
O'mie  was  hugging  me  hard  until  Bud  Anderson  pulled 
him  away  and  all  the  boys  and  girls  were  around  me. 
Oh,  it  was  good  to  see  them  all  again,  but  best  of  all  was 
it  to  see  Marjie.  She  had  been  a  pretty  picture  of  a  young 
girl.  She  was  beautiful  now.  No  wonder  she  had  many 
admirers.  She  was  last  among  the  girls  to  greet  me.  I 
took  her  hand  and  our  eyes  met.  Oh,  I  had  no  fear  of 
widower  nor  of  school-teacher,  as  I  helped  her  to  a  seat 
beside  me  in  the  stage. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again,  Phil,"  she  looked  up 
into  my  face.     "  You  are  bigger  than  ever." 

155 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

"  And  you  are  just  the  same  Marjie." 

The  crowd  piled  promiscuously  about  us  and  we  bumped 
down  the  slope  and  into  the  gurgling  Neosho,  laughing 
and  happy. 

With  all  the  rough  and  tumble  years  of  a  boyhood  and 
youth  on  the  frontier,  the  West  has  been  good  to  me,  and 
I  look  back  along  the  way  glad  that  mine  was  the  pioneer's 
time,  and  that  the  experiences  of  those  early  days  welded 
into  my  building  and  being  something  of  their  simplicity, 
and  strength,  and  capacity  for  enjoyment.  But  of  all 
the  seasons  along  the  way  of  these  sixty  years,  of  all  the 
successes  and  pleasures,  I  remember  best  and  treasure 
most  that  glorious  summer  after  my  return  from  the 
East.  My  father  was  on  the  Judge's  bench  now  and  his 
legal  interests  and  property  interests  were  growing.  I 
began  the  study  of  law  under  him  at  once,  and  my  duties 
were  many,  for  he  put  responsibility  on  me  from  the  first. 
But  I  was  in  the  very  heyday  of  life,  and  had  no  wish  un- 
gratified. 

"  Phil,  I  want  you  to  go  up  the  river  and  take  a  look 
at  two  quarters  of  Section  29,  range  14,  this  afternoon. 
It  lies  just  this  side  of  the  big  cottonwood,"  my  father 
said  to  me  one  June  day. 

"  Make  a  special  note  of  the  land,  and  its  natural  ap- 
purtenances. I  want  the  information  at  once,  or  you 
need  n't  go  out  on  such  a  hot  day.  It 's  like  a  furnace 
in  the  courthouse.  It  may  be  cooler  out  that  way."  He 
fanned  his  face  with  his  straw  hat,  and  the  light  breeze 
coming  up  the  valley  lifted  the  damp  hair  about  his 
temples. 

"  There  's  a  bridle  path  over  the  bluff  a  mile  or  so  out, 
where  you  can  ride  a  horse  down  and  go  up  the  river  in 
the  bottom.  It 's  a  much  shorter  way,  but  you  'd  better 

156 


GOLDEN     DAYS 

go  out  the  Red  Range  road  and  turn  north  at  the  third 
draw  well  on  to  the  divide.  It  gets  pretty  steep  near 
the  river,  so  you  have  to  keep  to  the  west  and  turn  square 
at  the  draw.  If  it  was  n't  so  warm  you  might  go  on  to 
Red  Range  for  some  depositions  for  me.  But  never  mind, 
Dave  Mead  is  going  up  there  Monday,  anyhow.  Will 
you  ride  the  pony?  " 

"  No,  I  '11  go  out  in  the  buggy." 

"  And  take  some  girl  along?  Well,  don't  forget  your 
errand.  Be  sure  to  note  the  lay  of  the  land.  There  Js  no 
building,  I  believe,  but  a  little  stone  cabin  and  it's  been 
empty  for  years;  but  you  can  see.  Be  sure  to  examine 
everything  in  that  cabin  carefully.  Stop  at  the  court- 
house as  you  go  out,  and  get  the  surveyor's  map  and  some 
other  directions." 

It  was  a  hot  summer  day,  with  that  thin,  dry  burning 
in  the  air  that  the  light  Kansas  zephyr  fanned  back  in  little 
rippling  waves.  My  horses  were  of  the  Indian  pony 
breed,  able  to  go  in  heat  or  cold.  Most  enduring  and 
least  handsome  of  the  whole  horse  family,  with  temper 
ranging  from  moderately  vicious  to  supremely  devilish, 
is  this  Indian  pony  of  the  Plains. 

Marjie  was  in  the  buggy  beside  me  when  I  stopped  at 
the  courthouse  for  instructions.  Lettie  Conlow  was  pass- 
ing and  came  to  the  buggy's  side. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Marjie?"  she  asked.  There 
was  a  sullen  minor  tone  in  her  voice. 

"  With  Phil,  out  somewhere.  Where  is  it  you  are  go- 
ing, Phil?" 

I  was  tying  the  ponies.  They  never  learned  how  to 
stand  unanchored  a  minute. 

"  Out  north  on  the  Red  Range  prairie  to  buy  a  couple 
of  quarters,"  I  replied  carelessly  and  ran  up  the  court- 
house steps. 

157 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

*' Well,  well,  well,"  Cam  Gentry  roared  as  he  ambled 
up  to  the  buggy.  Cam's  voice  was  loud  in  proportion  as 
his  range  of  vision  was  short.  "You  two  gettin'  ready 
to  elope?  An'  he's  goin'  to  git  his  dad  to  back  him  up 
gettin'  a  farm.  Now,  Marjie,  why  Jd  you  run  off?  Let 
us  see  the  performance  an'  hear  Dr.  Hemingway  say  the 
words  in  the  Presbyterian  Church.  Or  maybe  you  're 
goin'  to  hunt  up  Dodd.  He  went  toward  Santy  Fee  when 
he  put  out  of  here  after  the  War." 

on  Gam  could  be  heard  in  every  corner  of  the  public  square. 
I  was  at  the  open  window  of  my  father's  office.  Looking 
out,  I  saw  Lettie  staring  angrily  at  Cam,  who  could  n't 
see  her  face,  She  had  never  seemed  less  attractive  to  me. 
She  had  a  flashy  coloring,  and  she  made  the  most  of  orna- 
ments. Some  people  called  her  good-looking.  Beside 
Marjie,  she  was  as  the  wild  yoncopin  to  the  calla  lily. 
Marjie  knew  how  to  dress.  To-day,  shaded  by  the  buggy- 
top,  in  her  dainty  light  blue  lawn,  with  the  soft  pink  of 
her  cheeks  and  her  clear  white  brow  and  throat,  she  was 
a  most  delicious  thing  to  look  upon  in  that  hot  summer 
street.  Poor  Lettie  suffered  by  contrast.  Her  cheeks 
were  blazing,  and  her  hair,  wet  with  perspiration,  was 
adorned  with  a  bow  of  bright  purple  ribbon  tied  butterfly- 
fashion,  and  fastened  on  with  a  pin  set  with  flashing  bril- 
liants. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Cam,"  Marjie  cried,  blushing  like  the  pink 
rambler  roses  climbing  the  tavern  veranda,  "  Phil 's  just 
going  out  to  look  at  some  land  for  his  father.  It 's  up 
the  river  somewhere  and  I  'm  going  to  hold  the  ponies 
while  he  looks." 

"  Well,  he  'd  ort  to  have  somebody  holdin'  'em  fur  him. 
I  '11  bet  ye  I  'd  want  a  hostler  if  I  had  the  lookin'  to  do. 
Land's  a  mighty  small  thing  an'  hard  to  look  at,  some- 
times ;  'specially  when  a  feller's  head  's  in  the  clouds  an' 

158 


Baronet,  I  think  we  are  marching  straight  into  Hell's  jaws" 


GOLDEN     DAYS 

he's  walkin'  on  air.  Goin'  northwest?  Look  out,  they 's 
a  ha'nted  house  up  there.  But,  by  hen,  I  'd  never  see  a 
ha'nt  long  's  I  had  somethin'  better  to  look  at." 

I  saw  Lettie  turn  quickly  and  disappear  around  the 
corner.  My  father  was  busy,  so  I  sat  in  the  office  window 
and  whistled  and  waited,  watching  the  ponies  switch  lazily 
at  the  flies. 

When  we  were  clear  of  town,  and  the  open  plain  swept 
by  the  summer  breezes  gave  freedom  from  the  heat,  Marjie 
asked : 

"  Where  is  Lettie  Conlow  going  on  such  a  hot  after- 
noon?" 

"  Nowhere,  is  she  ?  She  was  talking  to  you  at  the 
courthouse." 

"  But  she  rushed  away  while  Uncle  Cam  was  joking, 
and  I  saw  her  cross  the  alley  back  of  the  courthouse  on 
Tell's  pony,  and  in  a  minute  she  was  just  flying  up  toward 
Cliff  Street.  She  does  n't  ride  very  well.  I  thought  she 
was  afraid  of  that  pony.  But  she  was  making  it  go  sailing 
out  toward  the  bluff  above  town." 

"  Well,  let  her  go,  Marjie.  She  always  wears  on  my 
nerves." 

"  Phil,  she  likes  you,  I  know.    Everybody  knows." 

"  Well,  I  know  and  everybody  knows  that  I  never  give 
her  reason  to.  I  wish  she  would  listen  to  Tell.  I  thought 
when  I  first  came  home  they  were  engaged." 

"  Before  he  went  up  to  Wyandotte  to  work  they  were  — 
he  said  so,  anyhow." 

Then  we  forgot  Lettie.  She  was  n't  necessary  to  us 
that  day,  for  there  were  only  two  in  our  world. 

Out  on  the  prairie  trail  a  mile  or  more  is  the  point 
where  the  bridle  path  leading  to  the  river  turns  north- 
west, and  passing  over  a  sidling  narrow  way  down  the 
bluff,  it  follows  the  bottom  lands  upstream.  As  we  passed 

159 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

this  point  we  did  not  notice  Tell  Mapleson's  black  pony 
just  making  the  top  from  the  sidling  bluff  way,  nor  how 
quickly  its  rider  wheeled  and  headed  back  again  down 
beyond  sight  of  the  level  prairie  road.  We  had  forgotten 
Lettie  Conlow  and  everybody  else. 

The  draw  was  the  same  old  verdant  ripple  in  the  sur- 
face of  the  Plains.  The  grasses  were  fresh  and  green. 
Toward  the  river  the  cottonwoods  were  making  a  cool, 
shady  way,  delightfully  refreshing  in  this  summer  sun- 
shine. 

We  did  not  hurry,  for  the  draw  was  full  of  happy  mem- 
ories for  us. 

"  I  '11  corral  these  bronchos  up  under  the  big  cottonwood, 
and  we  '11  explore  appurtenances  down  by  the  river  later," 
I  said.  "  Father  says  every  foot  of  the  half-section  ought 
to  be  viewed  from  that  tree,  except  what's  in  the  little 
clump  about  the  cabin." 

We  drove  up  to  the  open  prairie  again  and  let  the  horses 
rest  in  the  shade  of  this  huge  pioneer  tree  of  the  Plains. 
How  it  had  escaped  the  prairie  fires  through  its  years  of 
sturdy  growth  is  a  marvel,  for  it  commanded  the  highest 
point  of  the  whole  divide.  Its  shade  was  delicious  after 
the  glare  of  the  trail. 

For  once  the  ponies  seemed  willing  to  stand  quiet,  and 
Marjie  and  I  looked  long  at  the  magnificent  stretch  of  sky 
and  earth.  There  were  a  few  white  clouds  overhead,  deep- 
ening to  a  dull  gray  in  the  southwest.  All  the  sunny  land 
was  swathed  in  the  midsummer  yellow  green,  darkening 
in  verdure  along  the  river  and  creeks,  and  in  the  deepest 
draws.  Even  as  we  rested  there  the  clouds  rolled  over 
the  horizon's  edge,  piling  higher  and  higher,  till  they  hid 
the  afternoon  sun,  and  the  world  was  cool  and  gray. 
Then  down  the  land  sped  a  summer  shower;  and  the 
sweet  damp  odor  of  its  refreshing  the  south  wind  bore  to 

1 60 


GOLDEN     DAYS 

us,  who  saw  it  all.  Sheet  after  sheet  of  glittering  rain- 
drops, wind-driven,  swept  across  the  prairie,  and  the  cool 
green  and  the  silvery  mist  made  a  scene  a  master  could 
joy  to  copy. 

I  did  n't  forget  my  errand,  but  it  was  not  until  the 
afternoon  was  growing  late  that  we  left  the  higher  ground 
and  drove  down  the  shady  draw  toward  the  river.  The 
Neosho  is  a  picture  here,  with  still  expanses  that  mirror  the 
trees  along  its  banks,  and  stony  shallows  where  the  water, 
even  in  midsummer,  prattles  merrily  in  the  sunshine,  as  it 
hurries  toward  the  deep  stillnesses. 

We  sat  down  in  a  cool,  grassy  space  with  the  river  be- 
fore us,  and  the  green  trees  shading  the  little  stone  cabin 
beyond  us,  while  down  the  draw  the  vista  of  still  sunlit 
plains  was  like  a  dream  of  beauty. 

"  Marjie," —  I  took  her  hand  in  mine  — "  since  you  were 
a  little  girl  I  have  known  you.  Of  all  the  girls  here  I 
have  known  you  longest.  In  the  two  years  I  was  East 
I  met  many  young  ladies,  both  in  school  and  at  Rockport. 
There  were  some  charming  young  folks.  One  of  them, 
Rachel  Melrose,  was  very  pretty  and  very  wealthy.  Her 
mother  made  considerable  fuss  over  me,  and  I  believe  the 
daughter  liked  me  a  little;  for  she  —  but  never  mind; 
maybe  it  was  all  my  vanity.  But,  Marjie,  there  has  never 
been  but  one  girl  for  me  in  all  this  world ;  there  will  never 
be  but  one.  If  Jean  Pahusca  had  carried  you  off  —  Oh, 
God  in  Heaven!  Marjie,  I  wonder  how  my  father  lived 
through  the  days  after  my  mother  lost  her  life.  Men  do, 
I  know." 

I  was  toying  with  her  hand.  It  was  soft  and  beauti- 
fully formed,  although  she  knew  the  work  of  our  Spring- 
vale  households. 

"  Marjie,"  my  voice  was  full  of  tenderness,  "  you  are 
dear  to  me  as  my  mother  was  to  my  father.  I  loved 
11  161 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

you  as  my  little  playmate;  I  was  fond  of  you  as  my  girl 
when  I  was  first  beginning  to  care  for  a  girl  as  boys  will; 
as  my  sweetheart,  when  the  liking  grew  to  something 
more.  And  now  all  the  love  a  man  can  give,  I  give  to 
you." 

I  rose  up  before  her.  They  call  me  vigorous  and  well 
built  to-day.  I  was  in  my  young  manhood's  prime  then. 
I  looked  down  at  her,  young  and  dainty,  with  the  sweet 
grace  of  womanhood  adorning  her  like  a  garment.  She 
stood  up  beside  me  and  lifted  her  fair  face  to  mine.  There 
was  a  bloom  on  her  cheeks  and  her  brown  eyes  were  full 
of  peace.  I  opened  my  arms  to  her  and  she  nestled  in 
them  and  rested  her  cheek  against  my  shoulder. 

"  Marjie,"  I  said  gently,  "  will  you  kiss  me  and  tell 
me  that  you  love  me  ?  " 

Her  arms  were  about  my  neck  a  moment.  Sometimes  I 
can  feel  them  there  now.  All  shy  and  sweet  she  lifted  her 
lips  to  mine. 

"  I  do  love  you,  Phil,"  she  murmured,  and  then  of  her 
own  will,  just  once,  she  kissed  me. 

"  It  is  vouchsafed  sometimes  to  know  a  bit  of  heaven 
here  on  earth,"  Le  Claire  had  said  to  me  when  he  talked 
of  O'mie's  father. 

It  came  to  me  that  day;  the  cool,  green  valley  by  the 
river,  the  vine-covered  old  stone  cabin,  the  sunlit  draw 
opening  to  a  limitless  world  of  summer  peace  and  beauty, 
and  Marjie  with  me,  while  both  of  us  were  young  and  we 
loved  each  other. 

The  lengthening  shadows  warned  me  at  last. 

"Well,  I  must  finish  up  this  investigation  business  of 
Judge  Baronet's,"  I  declared.  "  Come,  here  's  a  haunted 
house  waiting  for  us.  Father  says  it  has  n't  been  inhab- 
ited since  the  Frenchman  left  it.  Are  you  afraid  of 
ghosts?" 

162 


GOLDEN     DAYS 

We  were  going  up  a  grass-grown  way  toward  the  little 
stone  structure,  half  buried  in  climbing  vines  and  wild 
shrubbery. 

"  What  a  cunning  place,  Phil !  It  does  n't  look  quite  de- 
serted to  me,  somehow.  No,  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything 
but  Indians." 

My  arm  was  about  her  in  a  moment.  She  looked  up 
laughing,  but  she  did  not  put  it  away. 

"  Why,  there  are  no  Indians  here,  Phil,"  and  she  looked 
out  on  the  sunny  draw. 

My  face  was  toward  the  cabin.  I  was  in  a  blissful 
waking  dream,  else  I  should  have  taken  quicker  note. 
For  sure  as  I  had  eyes,  I  caught  a  flash  of  red  between 
the  far  corner  of  the  cabin  and  the  thick  underbrush 
beyond  it.  It  was  just  a  narrow  space,  where  one  might 
barely  pass,  between  the  corner  of  the  little  building  and 
the  surrounding  shrubbery;  but  for  an  instant,  a  red 
blanket  with  a  white  centre  flashed  across  this  space,  and 
was  gone.  So  swift  was  its  flight  and  so  full  was  my 
mind  of  the  joy  of  living,  I  could  not  be  sure  I  had  seen 
anything.  It  was  just  a  twitch  of  the  eyelid.  What  else 
could  it  be? 

We  pushed  open  the  solid  oak  door,  and  stood  inside 
the  little  room.  The  two  windows  let  in  a  soft  green 
light.  It  was  a  rude  structure  of  the  early  Territorial 
days,  made  for  shelter  and  warmth.  There  was  a  dark 
little  attic  or  loft  overhead.  A  few  pieces  of  furniture  — 
a  chair,  a  table,  a  stone  hearth  by  the  fireplace,  and  a 
sort  of  cupboard  —  these,  with  a  strong,  old  worn  chest, 
were  all  that  the  room  held.  Dust  was  everywhere,  as 
might  have  been  expected.  And  yet  Marjie  was  right. 
The  spirit  of  occupation  was  there. 

"  Do  you  know,  Marjie,  this  cabin  has  hardly  been 
opened  since  the  poor  woman  drowned  herself  in  the  river, 

163 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

down  there.  They  found  her  body  in  the  Deep  Hole. 
The  Frenchman  left  the  place,  and  it  has  been  called 
haunted.  An  Indian  and  a  ghost  can't  live  together.  The 
race  fears  them  of  all  things.  So  the  Indians  would  never 
come  here." 

"But  look  there,  Phil! "-—  Marjie  had  not  heeded  my 
words  — "  there  's  a  stick  partly  burned,  and  these  ashes 
look  fresh."  She  was  bending  over  the  big  stone  hearth. 

As  I  started  forward,  my  eye  caught  a  bit  of  color  be- 
hind the  chair  by  the  table.  I  stooped  to  see  a  purple  bow 
of  ribbon,  tied  butterfly  fashion  —  Lettie  Conlow's  rib- 
bon. I  put  it  in  my  pocket,  determined  to  find  out  how 
it  had  found  its  way  here. 

"Ugh!  Let's  go,"  said  Marjie,  turning  to  me.  "I'm 
cold  in  here.  I  'd  want  a  home  up  under  the  cottonwood, 
not  down  in  this  lonely  place.  Maybe  movers  on  the 
trail  camp  in  here."  Marjie  was  at  the  door  now. 

I  looked  about  once  more  and  then  we  went  outside 
and  stood  on  the  broad,  flat  step.  The  late  afternoon 
was  dreamily  still  here,  and  the  odor  of  some  flowers, 
faint  and  woodsy,  came  from  the  thicket  beside  the  door- 
way. 

"  It  is  dreary  in  there,  Marjie,  but  I  '11  always  love  this 
place  outside.  Won't  you?  "  I  said,  and  with  a  lover's 
happiness  in  my  face,  I  drew  her  close  to  me. 

She  smiled  and  nodded.  "  I  '11  tell  you  all  I  think  after 
a  while.  I  '11  write  it  to  you  in  a  letter." 

"  Do,  Marjie,  and  put  it  in  our  '  Rockport '  postoffice, 
just  like  we  used  to  do.  I  '11  write  you  every  day,  too,  and 
you  '11  find  my  letter  in  the  same  old  crevice.  Come,  now, 
we  must  go  home." 

"We'll  come  again."  Marjie  waved  her  hand  to  the 
silent  gray  cabin.  And  slowly,  as  lovers  will,  we  strolled 


GOLDEN     DAYS 

down  the  walk  and  out  into  the  open  where  the  ponies 
neighed  a  hurry-up  call  for  home. 

Somehow  the  joy  of  youth  and  hope  drove  fear  and 
suspicion  clear  from  my  mind,  and  with  the  opal  skies 
above  us  and  the  broad  sweet  prairies  round  about  us 
for  an  eternal  setting  of  peace  and  beauty,  we  two  came 
home  that  evening,  lovers,  who  never  afterwards  might 
walk  alone,  for  that  our  paths  were  become  one  way 
wherein  we  might  go  keeping  step  evermore  together 
down  the  years. 


165 


CHAPTER    XII 

A    MAN'S    ESTATE 

When  I  became  a  man  I  put  away  childish  things. 

THE  next  day  was  the  Sabbath.  I  was  twenty-one 
that  day.  Marjie  and  I  sang  in  the  choir,  and  most 
of  the  solo  work  fell  to  us.  Dave  Mead  was  our  tenor, 
and  Bess  Anderson  at  the  organ  sang  alto.  Dave  was 
away  that  day.  His  girl  sweetheart  up  on  Red  Range 
was  in  her  last  illness  then,  and  Dave  was  at  her  bed- 
side. Poor  Dave!  he  left  Springvale  that  Fall,  and  he 
never  came  back.  And  although  he  has  been  honored 
and  courted  of  women,  I  have  been  told  that  in  his  lux- 
urious bachelor  apartments  in  Hong  Kong  there  is  only 
one  woman's  picture,  an  old-fashioned  daguerreotype  of 
a  sweet  girlish  face;  in  an  ebony  frame. 

Dr.  Hemingway  always  planned  the  music  to  suit  his 
own  notions.  What  he  asked  for  we  gave.  On  this  Sab- 
bath morning  there  was  no  surprise  when  he  announced, 
"  Our  tenor  being  absent,  we  will  omit  the  anthem,  and 
I  shall  ask  brother  Philip  and  sister  Marjory  to  sing  Num- 
ber 549,  '  Oh,  for  a  Closer  Walk  with  God/  " 

He  smiled  benignly  upon  us.  We  were  accustomed  to 
his  way,  and  we  knew  everybody  in  that  little  congrega- 
tion. And  yet,  somehow,  a  flutter  went  through  the  com- 
pany when  we  stood  up  together,  as  if  everybody  knew 
our  thoughts.  We  had  stood  side  by  side  on  Sabbath 
mornings  and  had  sung  from  the  same  book  since  child- 

166 


A     MAN'S     ESTATE 

hood,  with  never  a  thought  of  embarrassment.  It  dawned 
on  Springvale  that  day  as  a  revelation  what  Marjie  meant 
to  me.  All  the  world,  including  our  town,  loves  a  lover, 
and  it  was  suddenly  clear  to  the  town  that  the  tall,  broad- 
shouldered  young  man  who  looked  down  at  the  sweet- 
browed  little  girl-woman  beside  him  as  he  looked  at  no- 
body else,  whose  hand  touched  hers  as  they  turned  the 
leaves,  and  who  led  her  by  the  arm  ever  so  gently  down 
the  steps  from  the  choir  seats,  was  reading  for  himself 

That  old  fair  story 
Set  round  in  glory 
Wherever  life  is  found. 

And  Marjie,  in  spotless  white,  with  her  broad-brimmed 
hat  set  back  from  her  curl-shaded  forehead,  the  tinted 
lights  from  the  memorial  window  which  Amos  Judson  had 
placed  there  for  his  wife,  falling  like  an  aureole  about  her, 
who  could  keep  from  loving  her? 

"  Her  an*  Phil  Baronet 's  jist  made  fur  one  another," 
Cam  Gentry  declared  to  a  bunch  of  town  gossips  the  next 
day. 

"Now'd  ye  ever  see  a  finer-lookin*  couple?"  broke  in 
Grandpa  Mead.  "  An'  the  way  they  sung  that  hymn  yes- 
terday —  well,  I  just  hope  they  '11  repeat  it  over  my  re- 
mains." And  Grandpa  began  to  sing  softly  in  his  quaver- 
ing voice: 

Oh,  for  a  closer  walk  with  God, 

A  cam  and  heavenli  frame, 
A  light  toe  shine  upon  tha  road 

That  leads  me  toe  tha  Lamb. 

Everybody  agreed  with  Cam  except  Judson.  He  was 
very  cross  with  O'mie  that  morning.  O'mie  was  clerk  and 
manager  for  him  now,  as  Judson  himself  had  been  for 


THE     PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

Irving  Whately.  He  rubbed  his  hands  and  joined  the 
group,  smiling  a  trifle  scornfully. 

"  Seems  to  me  you  're  all  gossiping  pretty  freely  this 
morning.  The  young  man  may  be  pretty  well  fixed  some 
day.  But  he  's  young,  he 's  young.  Mrs.  Whately  's  my 
partner,  and  I  know  their  affairs  very  well,  very  well. 
She  '11  provide  her  daughter  with  a  man,  not  a  mere  boy." 

"  Well,  he  was  man  enough  to  keep  this  here  town 
from  burnin*  up,  an*  no  tellin*  how  many  bloodsheds," 
Grandpa  Mead  piped  in. 

"  He  was  man  enough  to  find  O'mie  and  save  his  life," 
Cam  protested. 

"  Well,  we  '11  leave  it  to  Dr.  Hemingway,"  Judson  de- 
clared, as  the  good  doctor  entered  the  doorway.  Judson 
paid  liberally  into  the  church  fund  and  accounted  that  his 
wishes  should  weigh  much  with  the  good  minister.  "  We 

—  these    people    here  —  were    just    coupling    the    name 
of  Marjory  Whately  with  that  boy  of  Judge  Baronet's. 
Now  I  know  how  Mrs.  Whately  is  circumstanced.     She  is 
peculiarly  situated,  and  it  seems  foolish  to  even  repeat 
such  gossip  about  this  young  man,  this  very  young  man, 
Philip." 

The  minister  smiled  upon  the  group  serenely.  He 
knew  the  life-purpose  of  every  member  of  it,  and  he  could 
have  said,  as  Kipling  wrote  of  the  Hindoo  people: 

I  have  eaten  your  bread  and  salt, 
I  have  drunk  your  water  and  wine; 

The  deaths  ye  died  I  have  watched  beside, 
And  the  lives  ye  led  were  mine. 

"  I  never  saw  a  finer  young  man  and  woman  in  my 
life,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  know  nothing  of  their  intentions 

—  as  yet.     They  have  n't  been  to  me,"  his  eyes  twinkled, 
"  but  they  are  good  to  look  upon  when  they  stand  up  to- 

168 


A     MAN'S     ESTATE 

gather.  Our  opinions,  however,  will  cut  little  figure  in 
their  affairs.  Heaven  bless  them  and  all  the  boys  and 
girls!  How  soon  they  grow  to  be  men  and  women." 

The  good  man  made  his  purchase  and  left  the  store. 

"  But  he  's  a  young  man,  a  very  boy  yet,"  Amos  Judson 
insisted,  unable  to  hide  his  disappointment  at  the  minis- 
ter's answer. 

The  very  boy  himself  walked  in  at  that  instant.  Jud- 
son turned  a  scowling  face  at  O'mie,  who  was  chuckling 
among  the  calicoes,  and  frowned  upon  the  group  as  if  to 
ward  off  any  further  talk.  I  nodded  good-morning  and 
went  to  O'mie. 

"Aunt  Candace  wants  some  Jane  P.  Coats's  thread, 
number  50  white,  two  spools." 

"  That 's  J.  &  P.  Coats,  young  man."  Judson  spoke 
more  sharply  than  he  need  to  have  done.  "  Goin'  East  to 
school  does  n't  always  finish  a  boy ;  size  an'  learnin'  don't 
count,"  and  he  giggled. 

I  was  whistling  softly,  "  Oh,  for  a  Closer  Walk  with 
God,"  and  I  turned  and  smiled  down  on  the  little  man.  I 
was  head  and  shoulders  above  him. 

"  No,  not  always.  I  can  still  learn,"  I  replied  good- 
naturedly,  and  went  whistling  on  my  way  to  the  court- 
house. 

I  was  in  a  good  humor  with  all  the  world  that  morning. 
Out  on  "  Rockport "  in  the  purple  twilight  of  the  Sabbath 
evening  I  had  slipped  my  mother's  ring  on  Marjie's  finger. 
I  was  on  my  way  now  for  a  long  talk  with  my  father.  I 
was  twenty-one,  a  man  in  years,  as  I  had  been  in  spirit 
since  the  night  the  town  was  threatened  by  the  Rebel 
raiders  —  aye,  even  since  the  day  Irving  Whately  begged 
me  to  take  care  of  Marjie.  I  had  no  time  to  quarrel  with 
the  little  widower. 

"  He 's  got  the  best  of  you,  Judson,"  Cam  declared. 

169 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  No  use  to  come,  second  hand,  fur  a  girl  like  that  when 
a  handsome  young  feller  like  Phil  Baronet,  who 's  run 
things  his  own  way  in  this  town  sence  he  was  a  little 
feller,  's  got  the  inside  track.  Why,  the  young  folks, 
agged  on  by  some  older  ones,  'ud  jist  natcherly  mob  any- 
body that  'ud  git  in  Phil's  way  of  whatever  he  wanted. 
Take  my  word,  if  he  wants  Marjie  he  kin  have  her;  and 
likewise  take  it,  he  does  want  her." 

"  An*  then,"  Grandpa  spoke  with  mock  persuasion, 
"  Amos,  ye  know  ye  've  been  married  oncet.  An*  ye  're 
not  so  young  an'  ye  're  a  leetle  bald.  D  'ye  just  notice 
Phil's  hair,  layin'  in  soft  thick  waves?  Allers  curled  that 
way  sence  he  was  a  little  feller." 

Amos  Judson  went  into  an  explosive  combustion. 

"  I  've  treated  my  wife's  memory  and  remains  as  good 
as  a  man  ever  did.  She  's  got  the  biggest  stone  in  the 
cemet'ry,  an'  I  've  put  a  memorial  window  in  the  church. 
An'  what  more  could  a  man  do  ?  It 's  more  than  any  of 
you  have  done."  Amos  was  too  wrought  up  to  reason. 

"  Well,  I  acknowledge,"  said  Cam,  "  I  Ve  ben  a  leetle 
slack  about  gittin'  a  grave-stun  up  fur  Dollie,  seein'  she  's 
still  livin',  but  I  have  threatened  her  time  an'  agin  to  put 
a  winder  to  her  memory  in  the  church  an'  git  her  in  shape 
to  legalize  it  if  she  don't  learn  how  to  git  me  up  a  good 
meal.  Darned  poor  cook  my  wife  is." 

"  An*  as  for  this  boy,"  Judson  broke  in,  not  noticing 
Cam's  joke,  "  as  to  his  looks,"  he  stroked  his  slick  light 
brown  hair,  "  a  little  baldness  gives  dignity,  makes  a  man 
look  like  a  man.  Who  'd  want  to  have  hair  like  a  girl's  ? 
But  Mrs.  Whately  's  too  wise  not  to  do  well  by  her  daugh- 
ter. She  knows  the  value  of  a  dollar,  and  a  man  makin* 
it  himself." 

"  Well,  why  not  set  your  cap  fur  the  widder?  You  'd 
make  a  good  father  to  her  child,  an'  Phil  would  jest 

170 


A     MAN'S     ESTATE 

na'chelly  be  proud  of  you  for  a  daddy-in-law."  This  from 
the  stage  driver,  Dever,  who  had  caught  the  spirit  of  the 
game  in  hand.  "Anyhow  you'd  orter  seen  them  two 
young  folks  meet  when  he  first  got  back  home,  out  there 
where  the  crowd  of  'em  helt  up  the  stage.  Well,  sir,  she 
was  the  last  to  say  'howdy  do.'  Everybody  was  lookin' 
the  other  way  then,  'cept  me,  and  I  didn't  have  sense 
enough.  Well,  sir,  he  jist  took  her  hand  like  somethin' 
he'd  been  reachin'  fur  about  two  year,  an'  they  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  hungry  like,  an'  a  sort  of  joy  such 
as  any  of  us  'ud  long  to  possess  come  into  them  two  young 
faces.  I  tell  you,  if  you  're  goin'  to  gossip  jist  turn  it 
onto  Judson  er  me,  but  let  them  two  alone." 

Judson  was  too  violently  angry  to  be  discreet. 

"  It 's  all  silly  scand'lous  foolishness,  and  I  won't  hear 
another  word  of  it,"  he  shouted. 

Just  as  he  spoke,  Marjie  herself  came  in.  Judson 
stepped  forward  in  an  officious  effort  to  serve  her,  and 
unable  to  restrain  himself,  he  called  out  to  O'mie,  "  Put 
four  yards  of  towelling,  twelve  and  a  half  cents  a  yard,  to 
Mrs.  Whately's  standing  account." 

It  was  not  the  words  that  offended,  so  much  as  the  tone, 
the  proprietary  sound,  the  sense  of  obligation  it  seemed  to 
put  upon  the  purchaser,  unrelieved  by  his  bland  smile  and 
attempt  at  humor  in  his  after  remark,  "  We  don't  run  ac- 
counts with  everybody,  but  I  guess  we  can  trust  you." 

It  cut  Marjie's  spirit.  A  flush  mounted  to  her  cheeks, 
as  she  took  her  purchase  and  hurried  out  of  the  door  and 
plump  into  my  father,  who  was  passing  just  then. 

Judge  Baronet  was  a  man  of  courtly  manners.  He 
gently  caught  Marjie's  arm  to  steady  her. 

"  Good-morning,  Marjie.     How  is  your  mother  to-day?  " 

The  little  girl  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  Her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  Presently  she  said,  "  May  I  come  up 

171 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

to  your  office  pretty  soon?  I  want  to  ask  you  some- 
thing—  something  of  our  business  matters." 

"  Yes,  yes,  come  now,"  he  replied,  taking  her  bundle 
and  putting  himself  on  the  outer  side  of  the  walk.  He 
had  forgotten  my  appointment  for  the  moment. 

When  they  reached  the  courthouse  he  said :  "  Just 
run  into  my  room  there ;  I  've  got  to  catch  Sheriff  Karr 
before  he  gets  away." 

He  opened  the  door  of  his  private  office,  thrusting  her 
gently  inside,  and  hurried  away.  I  turned  to  meet  my 
father,  and  there  was  Marjie.  Tear  drops  were  on  her 
long  brown  lashes,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed. 

"  Why,  my  little  girl ! "  I  exclaimed  in  surprise  as  she 
started  to  hurry  away. 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  were  in  here ;  your  father  sent  me 
in  " —  and  then  the  tears  came  in  earnest. 

I  could  n't  stand  for  that. 

"What  is  it,  Marjie?"  I  had  put  her  in  my  father's 
chair  and  was  bending  over  her,  my  face  dangerously  near 
her  cheek. 

"  It 's  Amos  Judson  —  Oh,  Phil,  I  can't  tell  you.  I  was 
going  to  talk  to  your  father." 

"  All  right,"  I  said  gayly.  "  Ask  papa.  It 's  the  proper 
thing.  He  must  be  consulted,  of  course.  But  as  to  Jud- 
son, don't  worry.  O'mie  promised  me  just  this  morning 
to  sew  him  up  in  a  sack  and  throw  him  off  the  cliff  above 
the  Hermit's  Cave  into  the  river.  O'mie  says  it's  safe; 
he  's  so  light  he  '11  float." 

Marjie  smiled  through  her  tears.  A  noise  in  the  outer 
office  reminded  us  that  some  one  was  there,  and  that  the 
outer  door  was  half  ajar.  Then  my  father  came  in.  His 
face  was  kindly  impenetrable. 

"  I  had  forgotten  my  son  was  here.  Phil,  take  these 
papers  over  to  the  county  attorney's  office.  I  '11  call  you 

172 


A     MAN'S     ESTATE 

later."  He  turned  me  out  and  gave  his  attention  to 
Marjie. 

I  loafed  about  the  outer  office  until  she  and  my  father 
came  out.  He  led  her  to  the  doorway  and  down  the  steps 
with  a  courtesy  he  never  forgot  toward  women.  When 
we  were  alone  in  his  private  office  I  longed  to  ask  Marjie's 
errand,  but  I  knew  my  father  too  well. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me,  Phil?"  He  was  seated  op- 
posite to  me,  his  eyes  were  looking  steadily  into  mine,  and 
clear  beyond  them  down  into  my  soul. 

"  Yes,  Father,"  I  replied ;  "  I  am  a  man  now  —  twenty- 
one  years  and  one  day  over.  And  there  are  a  few  things, 
as  a  man,  I  want  to  know  and  to  have  you  know." 

He  was  sharpening  a  pencil  carefully.  "  I  'm  listening," 
he  said  kindly. 

"  Well,  Father  — "  I  hesitated.  It  was  so  much  harder 
to  say  than  I  had  thought  it  would  be.  I  toyed  with  the 
tassel  of  the  window  cord  confusedly.  "  Father,  you  re- 
member when  you  were  twenty-one?" 

"  Yes,  my  son,  I  was  just  out  of  Harvard.  And  like 
you  I  had  a  father  to  whom  I  went  to  tell  him  I  was  in 
love,  just  as  you  are.  When  your  own  son  comes  to  you 
some  day,  help  him  a  little." 

I  felt  a  weight  lifted  from  my  mind.  It  was  good  of 
him  to  open  the  way. 

"  Father,  I  have  never  seen  any  other  girl  like  Marjie." 

"  No,  there  is  n't  any  —  for  you.     But  how  about  her?  " 

"  I  think,  I  know  she  —  does  care.  I  think  — "  I  was 
making  poor  work  of  it  after  all  his  help.  "  Well,  she  said 
she  did,  anyhow."  I  blurted  out  defiantly. 

"  The  court  accepts  the  evidence,"  he  remarked,  and 
then  more  seriously  he  went  on :  "  My  son,  I  am  happy 
in  your  joy.  I  may  have  been  a  little  slow.  There  was 
much  harmless  coupling  of  her  name  with  young  Till- 

173 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

hurst's  while  you  were  away.  I  did  not  give  it  much 
thought.  Letters  from  Rockport  were  also  giving  you  and 
Rachel  Melrose  some  consideration.  Rachel  is  an  only 
child  and  pretty  well  fixed  financially." 

"  Oh,  Father,  I  never  gave  her  two  thoughts." 

"  So  the  letters  intimated,  but  added  that  the  Melrose 
blood  is  persistent,  and  that  Rachel's  mother  was  espe- 
cially willing.  She  is  of  a  good  family,  old  friends  of  Can- 
dace's  and  mine.  She  will  have  money  in  her  own  right, 
is  handsome  and  well  educated.  I  thought  you  might  be 
satisfied  there." 

"  But  I  don't  care  for  her  money  nor  anybody  else's. 
Nobody  but  Marjie  will  ever  suit  me,"  I  cried. 

"  So  I  saw  when  I  looked  at  you  two  in  church  yester- 
day. It  was  a  revelation,  I  admit;  but  I  took  in  the  situ- 
ation at  once."  And  then  more  affectionately  he  added: 
"  I  was  very  proud  of  you,  Phil.  You  and  Marjie  made 
a  picture  I  shall  keep.  When  you  want  my  blessing,  I 
have  part  of  it  in  the  strong  box  in  my  safe.  All  I  have 
of  worldly  goods  will  be  yours,  Phil,  if  you  do  it  no  dis- 
honor ;  and  as  to  my  good-will,  my  son,  you  are  my  wife's 
child,  my  one  priceless  treasure.  When  by  your  own 
efforts  you  can  maintain  a  home,  nor  feel  yourself  de- 
pendent, then  bring  a  bride  to  me.  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to 
give  you  an  opportunity.  I  hope  you  will  not  wait  long. 
When  Irving  Whately  lay  dying  at  Chattanooga  he  told 
me  his  hopes  for  Marjie  and  you.  But  he  charged  me  not 
to  tell  you  until  you  should  of  your  own  accord  come  to 
me.  You  have  his  blessing,  too." 

How  good  he  was  to  me !     His  hand  grasped  mine. 

"  Phil,  let  me  say  one  thing ;  don't  ever  get  too  old  to 
consult  your  father.  It  may  save  some  losses  and  mis- 
understandings and  heart-aches.  And  now,  what  else  ?  " 

"  Father,  when  O'mie  seemed  to  be  dying,  Le  Claire  told 


A     MAN'S     ESTATE 

me  something  of  his  story  one  evening.     He  said  you 
knew  it." 

My  father  looked  grave. 

"How  does  this  concern  you,  Phil?" 

"  Only  in  this.  I  promised  Le  Claire  I  would  see  that 
O'mie's  case  was  cared  for  if  he  lived  and  you  never  came 
back,"  I  replied.  "  He  is  of  age  now,  and  if  he  knows  his 
rights  he  does  not  use  them." 

"  Have  you  talked  to  O'mie  of  this?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  promised  not  to  speak  of  it." 

"Phil,  did  Le  Claire  suggest  any  property?" 

"  No,  sir.     Is  there  any?  " 

My  father  smiled.  "  You  have  a  lawyer's  nose,"  he 
said,  "  but  fortunately  you  can  keep  a  still  tongue.  I  'm 
taking  care  of  O'mie's  case  right  now.  By  the  way,"  he 
went  on  after  a  short  pause.  "  I  sent  you  out  on  an  errand 
Saturday.  That 's  another  difficult  case,  a  land  claim  I  'm 
trying  to  prove  for  a  party.  There  are  two  claimants. 
Tell  Mapleson  is  the  counsel  for  the  other  one.  It 's  a 
really  dangerous  case  in  some  ways.  You  were  to  go  and 
spy  out  the  land.  What  did  you  see?  Anything  except 
a  pretty  girl?  "  My  face  was  burning.  "  Oh,  I  under- 
stand. You  found  a  place  out  there  to  stand,  and  now  you 
think  you  can  move  the  world." 

"  I  found  something  I  want  to  speak  of  besides.  Oh, 
well  —  I  'm  not  ashamed  of  caring  for  Marjie." 

"  No,  no,  my  boy.  You  are  right.  You  found  the  best 
thing  in  the  world.  I  found  it  myself  once,  by  a  moonlit 
sea,  not  on  the  summer  prairie ;  but  it  is  the  same  eternal 
blessing.  Now  go  on." 

"  Well,  father,  you  said  the  place  was  uninhabited.  But 
it  is  n't.  Somebody  is  about  there  now." 

"  Did  you  see  any  one,  or  is  it  just  a  wayside  camp  for 
movers  going  out  on  the  trail?  " 

175 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  saw  any  one,  and  yet  — " 

"  Tell  me  all  you  know,  and  all  you  suspect,  and  why 
you  have  conclusions,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  I  caught  just  a  glimpse,  a  mere  flirt  of  a  red  blanket 
with  a  white  centre,  the  kind  Jean  Pahusca  used  to  wear. 
It  was  between  the  corner  of  the  house  and  the  hazel- 
brush  thicket,  as  if  some  one  were  making  for  the  timber." 

"Did  you  follow  it?" 

"  N — no,  I  could  hardly  say  I  saw  anything ;  but  think- 
ing about  it  afterwards,  I  am  sure  somebody  was  getting 
out  of  sight." 

"  I  see."  My  father  looked  straight  at  me.  I  knew  his 
mind,  and  I  blushed  and  pulled  at  the  tassel  of  the  window 
cord.  "  Be  careful.  The  county  has  to  pay  for  curtain 
fixtures.  What  else?" 

"  Well,  inside  the  cabin  there  were  fresh  ashes  and  a 
half-burned  stick  on  the  hearth.  By  a  chair  under  the 
table  I  picked  this  up."  I  handed  him  the  bow  of  purple 
ribbon  with  the  flashing  pin. 

"  It  must  be  movers,  and  as  to  that  red  flash  of  color, 
are  you  real  sure  it  was  not  just  a  part  of  the  rose-hued 
world  out  there  ?  "  He  smiled  as  he  spoke. 

"  Father,  that  bow  was  on  Lettie  Conlow's  head  not  an 
hour  before  it  was  lost  out  there.  She  found  out  where 
we  were  going,  and  she  put  out  northwest  on  Tell  Maple- 
son's  pony.  She  may  have  taken  the  river  path.  It  is 
the  shortest  way.  Why  should  she  go  out  there  ?  " 

"  Do  some  thinking  for  yourself.  You  are  a  man  now, 
twenty-one,  and  one  day  over.  You  can  unravel  this 
part."  He  sat  with  impenetrable  face,  waiting  for  me  to 
speak. 

"  I  do  not  know.  Lettie  Conlow  has  always  been  silly 
about  —  about  the  boys.  All  the  young  folks  say  she 
likes  me,  has  always  liked  me." 

176 


A     MAN'S     ESTATE 

"How  much  cause  have  you  given  her?  Be  sure  your 
memory  is  clear."  My  father  spoke  sternly. 

"  Father,"  I  stood  before  him  now,  "  I  am  a  man,  as  you 
say,  and  I  have  come  up  through  a  boyhood  no  better  nor 
worse  than  the  other  boys  whom  you  know  here.  We 
were  a  pretty  decent  gang  even  before  you  went  away  to 
the  War.  After  that  we  had  to  be  men.  But  all  these 
years,  Father,  there  has  been  only  one  girl  for  me.  I  never 
gave  Lettie  Conlow  a  ghost  of  a  reason  for  thinking  I 
cared  for  her.  But  she  is  old  Conlow's  own  child,  and  she 
has  a  bitter,  jealous  nature." 

"Well,  what  took  her  to  the  —  to  the  old  cabin  out 
there?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  She  may  have  been  hidden  out  there 
to  spy  what  we  —  I  was  doing." 

"  Did  she  have  on  a  red  blanket  too,  Saturday  after- 
noon? " 

"  Well,  now  I  wonder  — ."  My  mind  was  in  a  whirl. 
Could  she  be  in  league  against  me?  What  did  it  mean? 
I  sat  down  to  think. 

"  Father,  there  's  something  I  Ve  never  yet  understood 
about  this  town,"  I  burst  out  impetuously.  *'  If  it  is  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  my  future  I  ought  to  know  it. 
Father  Le  Claire  would  tell  me  only  half  his  story.  You 
know  more  of  O'mie  than  you  will  tell  me.  And  here  is 
a  jealous  girl  whose  father  consented  to  give  Marjie  to  a 
brutal  Indian  out  of  hatred  for  her  father;  and  it  is  his 
daughter  who  trails  me  over  the  prairie  because  I  am  with 
Marjie.  Why  not  tell  me  now  what  you  know?  " 

My  father  sat  looking  thoughtfully  at  me.  At  last  he 
spoke. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  girls'  love  affairs  and  jealousies," 

he  said ;  "  pass  that  now.     I  am  O'mie's  attorney  and  am 

trying  to  adjust  his  claims  for  him  as  I  can  discover  them. 

12 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

I  cannot  get  hold  of  the  case  myself  as  I  should  like.  If 
Le  Claire  were  here  I  might  find  out  something." 

"  Or  nothing,"  I  broke  in.  "  It  would  depend  on  cir- 
cumstances." 

"  You  are  right.  He  has  never  told  me  all  he  knows, 
but  I  know  much  without  his  telling." 

"  Do  you  know  how  Jean  Pahusca  came  to  carry  a  knife 
for  years  with  the  name,  'Jean  Le  Claire/  cut  in  the  blade? 
Do  you  know  why  the  half-breed  and  the  priest  came  to 
look  so  much  alike,  same  square-cut  forehead,  same  build, 
same  gait,  same  proud  way  of  throwing  back  the  head? 
You've  only  to  look  at  them  to  see  all  this,  except  that 
with  a  little  imagination  the  priest's  face  would  fit  a  saint 
and  Jean's  is  a  very  devil's  countenance." 

"  I  do  not  know  the  exact  answer  to  any  of  these  ques- 
tions. They  are  points  for  us  to  work  out  together  now 
you  are  a  man.  Jean  is  in  some  way  bound  to  Le  Claire. 
If  by  blood  ties,  why  does  the  priest  not  own,  or  entirely 
disown  him?  If  not,  why  does  the  priest  protect  him? 

"  In  some  way,  too,  both  are  concerned  with  O'mie. 
Le  Claire  is  eager  to  protect  the  Irishman.  I  do  not  know 
where  Jean  is,  but  I  believe  sometimes  he  is  here  in  con- 
cealment. He  and  Tell  Mapleson  are  counselling  to- 
gether. I  think  he  furnishes  Tell  with  some  booty,  for 
Tell  is  inordinately  prosperous.  I  look  at  this  from  a 
lawyer's  place.  You  have  grown  up  with  the  crowd  here, 
and  you  see  as  a  young  man  from  the  social  side,  where 
personal  motives  count  for  much.  Together  we  must 
get  this  thing  unravelled;  and  it  may  be  in  doing  it  some 
love  matters  and  some  church  matters  may  get  mixed  and 
need  straightening.  You  must  keep  me  informed  of  every 
thing  you  know."  He  paused  a  moment,  then  added: 
"  I  am  glad  you  have  let  me  know  how  it  is  with  you, 
Phil.  In  your  life  I  can  live  my  own  again.  Children  do 


A     MAN'S     ESTATE 

so  bless  us.  Be  happy  in  your  love,  my  boy.  But  be 
manly,  too.  There  are  some  hard  climbs  before  you  yet. 
Learn  to  bear  and  wait.  Yours  is  an  open  sunlit  way  to- 
day. If  the  shadows  creep  across  it,  be  strong.  They 
will  lift  again.  Run  home  now  and  tell  Aunt  Candace 
I  '11  be  home  at  one  o'clock.  Tell  her  what  you  have  told 
me,  too.  She  will  be  glad  to  know  it." 

"  She  does  know  it ;  she  has  known  it  ever  since  the 
night  we  came  into  Spring  vale  in  1854." 

My  father  turned  to  the  door.  Then  he  put  his  arms 
about  me  and  kissed  my  forehead.  "  You  have  your 
mother's  face,  Phil."  How  full  of  tenderness  his  tones 
were ! 

In  the  office  I  saw  Judson  moving  restlessly  before  the 
windows.  He  had  been  waiting  there  for  some  time,  and 
he  frowned  on  me  as  I  passed  him.  He  was  a  man  of 
small  calibre.  His  one  gift  was  that  of  money-getting. 

By  the  careful  management  of  the  Whately  store  in 
the  owner's  absence  he  began  to  add  to  his  own  bank  ac- 
count. With  the  death  of  Mr.  Whately  he  had  assumed 
control,  refusing  to  allow  any  investigation  of  affairs  un- 
til, to  put  it  briefly,  he  was  now  in  entire  possession.  Poor 
Mrs.  Whately  hardly  knew  what  was  her  own,  while  her 
husband's  former  clerk  waxed  pompous  and  well-to-do. 
Being  a  vain  man,  he  thought  the  best  should  come  to  him 
in  social  affairs,  and  being  a  man  of  medium  intellect,  he 
lacked  self-control  and  tact. 

This  was  the  nature  of  the  creature  who  strode  into 
Judge  Baronet's  private  office,  slamming  the  door  behind 
him  and  presenting  himself  unannounced.  The  windows 
front  the  street  leading  down  to  where  the  trail  crossed  the 
river,  and  give  a  view  of  the  glistening  Neosho  winding 
down  the  valley.  My  father  was  standing  by  one  of  these 
windows  when  Judson  fired  himself  into  the  room.  John 

179 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Baronet's  mind  was  not  on  Springvale,  nor  on  the  river. 
His  thoughts  were  of  his  son  and  of  her  who  had  borne 
him,  the  sweet-browed  woman  whose  image  was  in  the 
sacredest  shrine  of  his  heart. 

Judson's  advent  was  ill-timed,  and  his  excessive  lack 
of  tact  made  the  matter  worse. 

"  Mr.  Baronet,"  he  began  pompously  enough,  "  I  must 
see  you  on  a  very  grave  matter,  very  grave  indeed." 

Judge  Baronet  gave  him  a  chair  and  sat  down  across 
the  table  from  him  to  listen.  Judson  had  grated  harshly 
on  his  mood,  but  he  was  a  man  of  poise. 

"  I  '11  be  brief  and  blunt.  That 's  what  you  lawyers 
want,  ain't  it?"  The  little  man  giggled.  "But  I  must 
advise  this  step  at  once  as  a  necessary,  a  very  necessary 
one." 

My  father  waited.  Judson  hadn't  the  penetration  to 
feel  embarrassed. 

"  You  see  it 's  like  this.  If  you  '11  just  keep  still  a  min- 
ute I  can  show  you,  though  I  ain't  no  lawyer ;  I  'm  a  man 
of  affairs,  a  commercialist,  as  you  would  say.  A  producer 
maybe  is  a  better  term.  In  short,  I  'm  a  money-maker." 

My  father  smiled.  "  I  see,"  he  remarked.  "  I  '11  keep 
still.  Go  on." 

"  Well,  now,  I  'm  a  widower  that  has  provided  hand- 
some for  my  first  wife's  remains.  I  've  earned  and  paid 
for  the  right  to  forget  her." 

The  great  broad-shouldered,  broad-minded  man  before 
the  little  boaster  looked  down  to  hide  his  contempt. 

"  I  've  did  my  part  handsome  now,  you  '11  admit ;  and 
being  alone  in  the  world,  with  no  one  to  enjoy  my  pros- 
perity with  me,  I  'm  lonesome.  That 's  it,  I  'm  lonesome. 
Ain't  you  sometimes?" 

"  Often,"  my  father  replied. 

"Now  I  know'd  it.  We're  in  the  same  boat  barring 

100 


A    MAN'S     ESTATE 

a  great  difference  in  ages.  Why,  hang  it,  Judge,  let 's  get 
married ! "  He  giggled  explosively  and  so  failed  to  see 
the  stern  face  of  the  man  before  him. 

"  I  want  a  young  woman,  a  pretty  girl,  I  Ve  a  right  to 
a  pretty  girl,  I  think.  In  fact,  I  want  Marjory  Whately. 
And  what 's  more,  I  'm  going  to  have  her.  I  Ve  all  but 
got  the  widder's  consent  now.  She  's  under  considerable 
obligation  to  me." 

Across  John  Baronet's  mind  there  swept  a  picture  of 
the  Chattanooga  battle  field.  The  roar  of  cannon,  the 
smoke  of  rifles,  the  awful  charge  on  charge,  around  him. 
And  in  the  very  heart  of  it  all,  Irving  Whately  wounded 
unto  death,  his  hands  grasping  the  Springvale  flag,  his 
voice  growing  faint. 

"You  will  look  after  them,  John?  Phil  promised  to  take 
care  of  Marjie.  It  makes  this  easier.  I  believe  they  will 
love  each  other,  John.  I  hope  they  may.  When  they  do, 
give  them  my  blessing.  Good-bye."  Across  this  vision 
Judson's  thin  sharp  voice  was  pouring  out  words. 

"  Now,  Baronet,  you  see,  to  be  plain,  it 's  just  this  way. 
If  I  marry  Marjory,  folks  '11  say  I  'm  doing  it  to  get  control 
of  the  widder's  stock.  It 's  small ;  but  they  '11  say  it." 

"  Why  should  it  be  small?  "  My  father's  voice  was  pen- 
etrating as  a  knife-thrust.  Judson  staggered  at  it  a  little. 

"  Business,  you  know,  management  you  could  n't  un- 
derstand. She  's  no  hand  at  money  matters." 

"  So  it  seems,"  my  father  said  dryly. 

"  But  you  'd  not  understand  it.  To  resume.  Folks  '11 
say  I  'm  trying  to  get  the  whole  thing,  when  all  I  really 
want  is  the  girl,  the  girl  now.  She  '11  not  have  much  at 
best ;  and  divided  between  her  and  her  mother,  there  '11 
be  little  left  for  Mrs.  Whately  to  go  on  livin'  on,  with 
Mrs.  Judson's  share  taken  out.  Now,  here 's  my  point 
precisely,  precisely.  You  take  the  widder  yourself.  You 

181 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

need  a  wife,  and  Mrs.  Whately  's  still  good-looking  most 
ways."     She  was  always  a  pretty,  winsome-faced  woman. 

"  You  've  got  a  plenty  and  getting  more  all  the  time. 
You  could  provide  handsome  for  her  the  rest  of  her  life. 
You  'd  enjoy  a  second  wife,  an'  she  'd  be  out  of  my 
way.  You  see  it,  don't  you?  I'll  marry  Marjie,  an'  you 
marry  her  mother,  kind  of  double  wedding.  Whew!  but 
we  'd  make  a  fine  couple  of  grooms.  What 's  in  gray  hair 
and  baldness,  anyhow?  But  there's  one  thing  I  can't 
stand  for.  Gossip  has  begun  to  couple  the  name  of  your 
boy  with  Miss  Whately.  Now  he  's  just  a  very  boy,  only 
a  year  or  two  older  'n  she,  and  nowise  able  to  take  care  of 
her  properly,  you  '11  admit ;  and  it 's  silly.  Besides,  Con- 
low  was  telling  me  just  an  hour  or  more  ago,  that  Phil 
and  Lettie  was  old-time  sweethearts.  I  've  nothing  to  do 
with  Phil's  puppy  love,  however.  I  'm  here  to  advise  with 
you.  Shall  we  clinch  the  bargain  now,  or  do  you  want 
to  think  about  it  a  little  while?  But  don't  take  long.  It 's 
a  little  sudden  maybe  to  you.  It 's  been  on  my  mind  since 
the  day  I  got  that  memorial  window  in  an'  Marjory  sang 
*  Lead  Kindly  Light,'  standing  there  in  the  light  of  it.  It 
was  a  service  for  my  first  wife  sung  by  her  that  was  to 
be  my  second,  you  might  almost  say.  Dr.  Hemingway 
talked  beautiful,  too,  just  beautiful.  But  I  've  got  to  go. 
Business  don't  bother  you  lawyers," — he  was  growing 
very  familiar  now, — "  but  us  merchants  has  to  keep  a 
sharp  eye  to  time.  When  shall  I  call?  "  He  rose  briskly. 
"When  shall  I  call?"  he  repeated. 

My  father  rose  up  to  his  full  height.  His  hands  were 
clasped  hard  behind  his  back.  He  did  not  lift  his  eyes  to 
the  expectant  creature  before  him,  and  the  foxy  little  wid- 
ower did  not  dream  how  near  to  danger  he  was.  With 
the  self-control  that  was  a  part  of  John  Baronet's  char- 
acter, he  replied  in  an  even  voice: 

182 


A     MAN'S     ESTATE 

"  You  will  come  when  I  send  for  you." 

That  evening  my  father  told  me  all  that  had  taken  place. 

"  You  are  a  man  now,  and  must  stand  up  against  this 
miserable  cur.  But  you  must  proceed  carefully.  No  hot- 
headed foolishness  will  do.  He  will  misjudge  your  mo- 
tives and  mine,  and  he  can  plant  some  ugly  seeds  along 
your  way.  Property  is  his  god.  He  is  daily  defrauding 
the  defenceless  to  secure  it.  When  I  move  against  him  it 
will  be  made  to  appear  that  I  do  it  for  your  sake.  Put 
yourself  into  the  place  where,  of  your  own  wage-earning 
power,  you  can  keep  a  wife  in  comfort,  not  luxury  yet. 
That  will  come  later,  maybe.  And  then  I  '11  hang  this  dog 
with  a  rope  of  his  own  braiding.  But  I  '11  wait  for  that 
until  you  come  fully  into  a  man's  estate,  with  the  power 
to  protect  what  you  love." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  TOPEKA  RALLY 

And  men  may  say  what  things  they  please,  and  none  dare  stay 

their  tongue. 

But  who  has  spoken  out  for  these  —  the  women  and  the  young? 

—  KIPLING. 

HENCEFORTH  I  had  one  controlling  purpose.  Mine 
was  now  the  task  to  prove  myself  a  man  with  power 
to  create  and  defend  the  little  kingdom  whose  throne  is 
builded  on  the  hearthstone.  I  put  into  my  work  all  the 
energy  of  my  youth  and  love  and  hope. 

I  applied  myself  to  the  study  of  law,  and  I  took  hold 
of  my  father's  business  interests  with  a  will.  I  was  to 
enter  into  a  partnership  with  him  when  I  could  do  a  part- 
ner's work.  He  forebore  favors,  but  he  gave  me  oppor- 
tunity to  prove  myself.  Stories  of  favoritism  on  account 
of  my  father's  position,  of  my  wasteful  and  luxurious 
habits,  ludicrous  enough  in  a  little  Kansas  town  in  the 
sixties,  were  peddled  about  by  the  restless  little  widower. 
By  my  father's  advice  I  let  him  alone  and  went  my  way.  I 
knew  that  silently  and  persistently  John  Baronet  was  trail- 
ing him.  And  I  knew  the  cause  was  a  righteous  one.  I 
had  lived  too  long  in  the  Baronet  family  to  think  the  head 
of  it  would  take  time  to  follow  after  a  personal  dislike,  or 
pursue  a  petty  purpose. 

There  may  have  been  many  happy  lovers  on  these  sunny 
prairies  that  idyllic  summer,  now  forty  years  gone  by. 

184 


THE     TOPEKA     RALLY 

The  story  of  each,  though  like  that  of  all  the  others,  seems 
best  to  him  who  lived  it.  Marjie  and  I  were  going 
through  commonplace  days,  but  we  were  very  happy  with 
the  joy  of  life  and  love.  Our  old  playground  was  now 
our  trysting  place.  Together  on  our  "  Rockport "  we 
planned  a  future  wherein  there  were  no  ugly  shadows. 

"  Marjie,  I  '11  always  keep  '  Rockport '  for  my  shrine 
now,"  I  said  to  her  one  evening  as  we  were  watching 
the  sunset  lights  on  the  prairie  and  the  river  upstream. 
"  If  you  ever  hear  me  say  I  don't  care  for  *  Rockport/  you 
will  know  I  do  not  care  for  you.  Now,  think  of  that ! " 

"  Don't  ever  say  it,  Phil,  please,  if  you  can  help  it." 
Marjie's  mood  was  more  serious  than  mine  just  then. 
"  I  used  to  be  afraid  of  Indians.  I  am  still,  if  there  were 
need  to  be,  and  I  looked  to  you  always  somehow  to  keep 
them  away.  Do  you  remember  how  I  would  always  get 
on  your  side  of  the  game  when  Jean  Pahusca  played 
with  us?" 

"  Yes,  Marjie.  That 's  where  you  belong  —  on  my  side. 
That 's  the  kind  of  game  I  'm  playing." 

"  Phil,  I  am  troubled  a  little  with  another  game.  I  wish 
Amos  Judson  would  stay  away  from  our  house.  He  can 
make  mother  believe  almost  anything.  I  don't  feel  safe 
about  some  matters.  Judge  Baronet  tells  me  not  to 
worry,  that  he  will  keep  close  watch." 

"  Well,  take  it  straight  from  me  that  he  will  do  it,"  I 
assured  her.  "  Let 's  let  the  widower  go  his  way.  He 
talks  about  me ;  says  I  'm  '  callow,  that 's  it,  just  callow.' 
I  don't  mind  being  callow,  as  long  as  it's  not  catching. 
Look  at  the  river,  how  it  glistens  now.  We  can  almost 
see  the  shallows  up  by  the  stone  cabin  below  the  big  cot- 
tonwood.  The  old  tree  is  shapely,  isn't  it?" 

We  were  looking  upstream  to  where  the  huge  old  tree 
stood  out  against  the  golden  horizon. 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  Let 's  buy  that  land,  Phil,  and  build  a  house  under 
the  big  cottonwood  some  day." 

"  All  right,  I  'm  to  go  out  there  again  soon.  Will  you 
go  too?" 

"  Of  course,"  Marjie  assented,  "  if  you  want  me  to." 

"  I  am  sure  I  'd  never  want  to  take  any  other  girl  out 
there,  but  just  you,  dear,"  I  declared. 

And  then  we  talked  of  other  things,  and  promised  to 
put  our  letters  next  day,  into  the  deep  crevice  we  had 
called  our  post-office  these  many  years.  Before  we  parted 
that  night,  I  said: 

"  I  'm  thinking  of  going  up  to  Topeka  when  the  band 
goes  to  the  big  political  speaking,  next  week.  I  will 
write  to  you.  And  be  sure  to  let  me  find  a  letter  in  *  Rock- 
port  '  when  I  get  back.  I  '11  be  so  lonely  up  there." 

"  Well,  find  some  pretty  girl  and  let  her  kill  time  for 
you." 

"  Will  you  and  Judson  kill  time  down  here  ?  " 

"  Ugh !  no,"  Marjie  shivered  in  disgust.  "  I  can't  bear 
the  sight  of  his  face  any  more." 

"  Good !  I  '11  not  try  to  be  any  more  miserable  by  be- 
ing bored  with  somebody  I  don't  care  for  at  Topeka. 
But  don't  forget  the  letter.  Good-night,  little  sweetheart," 
and  after  the  fashion  of  lovers,  I  said  good-bye. 

Kansas  is  essentially  a  land  of  young  politicians.  When 
O'mie  took  his  band  to  the  capital  city  to  play  martial 
music  for  the  big  political  rally,  there  were  more  young 
men  than  gray  beards  on  the  speakers'  stand  and  on  the 
front  seats.  I  had  gone  with  the  Springvale  crowd  on 
this  jaunt,  but  I  did  not  consider  myself  a  person  of  im- 
portance. 

"  There 's  Judge  Baronet's  son ;  he  's  just  out  of  Har- 
vard. He 's  got  big  influence  with  the  party  down  his 
way.  His  father  always  runs  away  ahead  of  his  ticket 

186 


THE    TOPEKA     RALLY 

and  has  the  whole  district  about  as  he  wants  it.  That 's 
the  boy  that  saved  Springvale  one  night  when  the  pro- 
slavery  crowd  was  goin'  to  burn  it,  the  year  of  the  Quan- 
trill  raid." 

So,  I  heard  myself  exploited  in  the  hotel  lobby  of  the 
old  Teft  House. 

"What's  Tell  Mapleson  after  this  year,  d'ye  reckon? 
Come  in  a  week  ago.  He  's  the  doggondest  feller  to  be 
after  something  an'  gets  it,  too,  somehow."  The  speaker 
was  a  seasoned  politician  of  the  hotel  lobby  variety. 

"  Oh,  he 's  got  a  big  suit  of  some  kind  back  East.  It 's 
a  case  of  money  bein'  left  to  heirs,  and  he's  looking  out 
that  the  heirs  don't  get  it." 

"  Ain't  it  awful  about  the  Saline  country?  "  a  bystander 
broke  in  here.  "  Just  awful !  Saw  a  man  from  out  there 
last  night  by  the  name  of  Morton.  He  said  that  them 
Cheyennes  are  raidin'  an'  murderin*  all  that  can't  get 
into  the  towns.  Lord  pity  the  unprotected  settlers  way 
out  in  that  lonely  country.  This  man  said  they  just 
killed  the  little  children  before  their  mothers'  eyes,  after 
they  'd  scalped  and  tomahawked  the  fathers.  Just  beat 
them  to  death,  and  then  carried  off  the  women.  Oh, 
God !  but  it 's  awful." 

Awful!  I  lived  through  the  hours  of  that  night  from 
the  time  young  Tell  Mapleson  had  told  of  Jean  Pahusca's 
plan  to  seize  Marjie,  to  the  moment  when  I  saw  her  safe 
in  the  shelter  of  her  mother's  doorway.  Awful!  And 
this  sort  of  thing  was  going  on  now  in  the  Saline  Valley. 
How  could  God  permit  it? 

"  There  was  one  family  out  there,  they  got  the  mother 
and  baby  and  just  butchered  the  other  children  right 
before  her  eyes.  They  hung  the  baby  to  a  tree  later,  and 
when  they  got  ready  they  killed  its  mother.  It  was  the 
only  merciful  thing  they  done,  I  guess,  in  all  their  raid, 

187 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

for  they  made  her  die  a  thousand  deaths  before  they  really 
cut  off  her  poor  pitiful  life." 

So  I  heard  the  talk  running  on,  and  I  wondered  at  the 
bluff  committeeman  who  broke  up  the  group  to  get  the 
men  in  line  for  a  factional  caucus. 

Did  the  election  of  a  party  favorite,  the  nomination  of 
a  man  whose  turn  had  come,  or  who  would  be  favorable 
to  "  our  crowd  "  in  his  appointments  match  in  importance 
this  terrible  menace  to  life  on  our  Indian  frontier?  I 
had  heard  much  of  the  Saline  and  the  Solomon  River  val- 
leys. Union  soldiers  were  homesteading  those  open 
plains.  My  father's  comrades-in-arms  they  had  been,  and 
he  was  intensely  interested  in  their  welfare.  These  Union 
men  had  wounds  still  unhealed  from  service  in  the  Civil 
War.  And  the  nation  they  bore  these  wounds  to  save, 
the  Government  at  Washington,  was  ignorant  or  indif- 
ferent to  this  danger  that  threatened  them  hourly  —  a 
danger  infinitely  worse  than  death  to  women.  And  the 
State  in  the  vital  throes  of  a  biennial  election  was  treat- 
ing the  whole  affair  as  a  deplorable  incident  truly,  but  one 
the  national  government  must  look  out  for. 

I  was  young  and  enthusiastic,  but  utterly  without  po- 
litical ambition.  I  was  only  recently  out  of  college,  with 
a  scholar's  ideals  of  civic  duty.  And  with  all  these,  I  had 
behind  me  the  years  of  a  frontier  life  on  the  border,  in 
which  years  my  experience  and  inspiration  had  taught  me 
the  value  of  the  American  home,  and  a  strong  man's  duty 
toward  the  weak  and  defenceless.  The  memories  of  my 
mother,  the  association  and  training  of  my  father's  sis- 
ter, and  my  love  for  Marjie  made  all  women  sacred  to  me. 
And  while  these  feelings  that  stirred  the  finest  fibres  of 
my  being,  and  of  which  I  never  spoke  then,  may  have 
been  the  mark  of  a  less  practical  nature  than  most  young 

188 


THE    TOPEKA     RALLY 

men  have  to-day,  I  account  my  life  stronger,  cleaner  and 
purer  for  having  had  them. 

I  could  take  only  a  perfunctory  interest  in  the  political 
game  about  me,  and  I  felt  little  elation  at  the  courteous 
request  that  I  should  take  a  seat  in  the  speakers'  stand, 
when  the  clans  did  finally  gather  for  a  grand  struggle  for 
place. 

The  meeting  opened  with  O'mie's  band  playing  "  The 
Star-Spangled  Banner."  It  brought  the  big  audience  to 
their  feet,  and  the  men  on  the  platform  stood  up.  I  was 
the  tallest  one  among  them.  Also  I  was  least  nervous, 
least  anxious,  and  least  important  to  that  occasion.  Per- 
functorily, too,  I  listened  to  the  speeches,  hearing  the 
grand  old  Republican  party's  virtues  lauded,  and  the  espe- 
cial fitness  of  certain  of  its  color-bearers  extolled  as  of 
mighty  men  of  valor,  with  "  the  burning  question  of  the 
hour  "  and  "  the  vital  issue  of  the  time  "  enlarged  upon, 
and  "  the  State's  most  pernicious  evil "  threatened  with 
dire  besetments.  And  through  it  all  my  mind  was  on  the 
unprotected,  scattered  settlements  of  the  Saline  Valley, 
and  the  murdered  children  and  the  defenceless  women, 
even  now  in  the  cruel  slavery  of  Indian  captivity. 

I  knew  only  a  few  people  in  the  capital  city  and  I  looked 
at  the  audience  with  the  indifference  of  a  stranger  who 
seeks  for  no  familiar  face.  And  yet,  subconsciously,  I 
felt  the  presence  of  some  one  who  was  watching  me,  some- 
one who  knew  me  well.  Presently  the  master  of  cere- 
monies called  for  the  gifted  educator,  Richard  Tillhurst  of 
Springvale.  I  knew  he  was  in  Topeka,  but  I  had  not 
hunted  for  him  any  more  than  he  had  sought  me  out. 
We  mutually  did  n't  need  each  other.  And  yet  local 
pride  is  strong,  and  I  led  the  hand-clapping  that  greeted 
his  appearance.  He  was  visibly  embarrassed,  and  ultra- 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

dignified.  Education  had  a  representative  above  reproach 
in  him.  Pompously,  after  the  manner  of  the  circum- 
scribed instructor,  he  began,  and  for  a  limited  time  the 
travelling  was  easy.  But  he  made  the  fatal  error  of  keep- 
ing on  his  feet  after  his  ideas  were  exhausted.  He  lost 
the  trail  and  wandered  aimlessly  in  the  barren,  trackless 
realms  of  thought,  seeking  relief  and  finding  none,  until 
at  length  in  sheer  embarrassment  he  forced  himself  to 
retreat  to  his  seat.  Little  enthusiasm  was  expressed  and 
failure  was  written  all  over  his  banner. 

The  next  speaker  was  a  politician  of  the  rip-roaring  va- 
riety who  pounded  the  table  and  howled  his  enthusiasm, 
whose  logic  was  all  expressed  in  the  short-story  form, 
sometimes  witty,  sometimes  far-fetched  and  often  profane. 
He  interested  me  least  of  all,  and  my  mind  abstracted  by 
the  Tillhurst  feature  went  back  again  to  the  Plains.  I 
could  not  realize  what  was  going  on  when  the  politician 
had  finished  amid  uproarious  applause,  and  the  chairman 
was  introducing  the  next  speaker,  until  I  caught  my 
father's  name,  coupled  with  lavish  praise  of  his  merits. 
There  was  a  graceful  folding  of  his  mantle  on  the  shoul- 
ders of  "  his  gifted  son,  just  out  of  Harvard,  but  a  true 
child  of  Kansas,  with  a  record  for  heroism  in  the  war  time, 
and  a  growing  prominence  in  his  district,  and  an  altogether 
good-headed,  good-hearted,  and,  the  ladies  all  agree,  good- 
looking  young  man,  the  handsome  giant  of  the  Neosho." 
And  I  found  myself  thrust  to  the  front  of  the  speakers' 
stand,  with  applause  following  itself,  and  O'mie,  the  mis- 
chievous rascal,  striking  off  a  few  bars  of  "  See,  the  Con- 
quering Hero  Comes ! " 

I  was  taken  so  completely  by  surprise  that  I  thought  the 
earth  especially  unkind  not  to  open  at  once  and  let  me  in. 
It  must  have  been  something  of  my  inheritance  of  my 
father's  self-control,  coupled  with  my  life  experience  of 

190 


THE    TOPEKA     RALLY 

having  to  meet  emergencies  quickly,  which  all  the  chil- 
dren of  Springvale  knew,  that  pulled  me  through.  The 
prolonged  cheering  gave  me  a  moment  to  get  the  mastery. 
Then  like  an  inspiration  came  the  thought  to  break  away 
from  the  beaten  path  of  local  politics  and  to  launch  forth 
into  a  plea  for  larger  political  ideals.  I  cited  the  Civil 
War  as  a  crucible,  testing  men.  I  did  not  once  mention 
my  father,  but  the  company  knew  his  proud  record,  and 
there  were  many  present  who  had  fought  and  marched 
and  starved  and  bled  beside  him,  men  whom  his  genius 
and  his  kindness  had  saved  from  peril,  even  the  peril  of 
death.  And  then  out  of  the  fulness  of  a  heart  that  had 
suffered,  I  pled  for  the  lives  and  homes  of  the  settlers  on 
our  Plains  frontier.  I  pictured,  for  I  knew  how  to  pic- 
ture, the  anguish  of  soul  an  Indian  raid  can  leave  in  its 
wake,  and  the  duty  we  owe  to  the  homes,  our  high 
privilege  as  strong  men  and  guardians  to  care  for  the  de- 
fenceless, and  our  opportunity  to  repay  a  part  at  least  of 
the  debt  we  owe  to  the  Union  soldier  by  giving  a  State's 
defence  to  these  men,  who  were  homesteading  our  hith- 
erto unbroken,  trackless  plains,  and  building  empire  west- 
ward toward  the  baths  of  sunset. 

The  effort  was  so  boyish,  so  unlike  every  other  speech 
that  had  been  made,  and  yet  so  full  of  a  young  man's 
honest  zeal  and  profound  convictions  from  a  soul  stirred 
to  its  very  depths,  that  the  audience  rose  to  their  feet 
at  my  closing  words,  and  cheer  followed  cheer,  making 
the  air  ring  with  sound. 

When  the  meeting  had  finished,  I  found  myself  in  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  men  who  knew  John  Baronet  and 
just  would  n't  let  his  son  get  away  without  a  handshake. 
I  was  flushed  with  the  pleasure  of  such  a  reception  and 
was  doing  my  best  to  act  well,  when  a  man  grasped  my 
hand  with  a  grip  unlike  any  other  hand  I  had  ever  felt,  so 

191 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

firm,  so  full  of  friendship,  and  yet  so  undemonstrative, 
that  I  instinctively  returned  the  clasp.  He  was  a  man 
of  some  thirty  years,  small  beside  me,  and  there  was 
nothing  unusual  in  his  face  or  dress  or  manner  to  attract 
my  attention.  A  stranger  might  not  turn  to  him  a  second 
time  in  a  crowd,  unless  they  had  once  spoken  and  clasped 
hands. 

"  My  name  is  Morton,"  he  said.  "  I  know  your  father, 
I  knew  him  in  the  army  and  before,  back  in  Massachu- 
setts. I  am  from  the  Saline  River  country,  and  I  came 
down  here  hoping  to  find  the  State  more  interested  in  the 
conditions  out  our  way.  You  were  the  only  speaker  who 
thought  of  the  needs  of  the  settlers.  There  are  terrible 
things  being  done  right  now." 

He  spoke  so  simply  that  a  careless  ear  would  not  have 
detected  the  strength  of  the  feeling  back  of  the  words. 

"  I'll  tell  my  father  I  met  you,"  I  said  cordially,  "  and 
I  hope,  I  hope  to  heaven  the  captives  may  be  found  soon, 
and  the  Indians  punished.  How  can  a  man  live  who  has 
lost  his  wife,  or  his  sweetheart,  in  that  way  ?  " 

I  knew  I  was  blushing,  but  the  matter  was  so  terrible 
to  me.  Before  he  could  answer,  Richard  Tillhurst  pushed 
through  the  crowd  and  caught  my  arm. 

"  There 's  an  old  friend  of  yours  here,  who  wants  to 
meet  you,  Mr.  Baronet,"  and  he  pulled  me  away. 

"  I  hope  I  '11  see  you  again,"  I  turned  to  Mr.  Morton  to 
say,  and  in  a  moment  more,  I  was  face  to  face  with 
Rachel  Melrose.  It  was  she  whose  presence  I  had  some- 
how felt  in  that  crowd  of  strangers.  She  was  handsomer 
even  than  I  had  remembered  her,  and  she  had  a  style  of 
dress  new  and  attractive.  One  would  know  that  she  was 
fresh  from  the  East,  for  our  own  girls  and  women  for  the 
most  part  had  many  things  to  consider  besides  the  latest 
fashions. 

192 


THE    TOPEKA     RALLY 

I  think  Tillhurst  mistook  my  surprise  for  confusion. 
He  was  a  man  of  good  principles,  but  he  was  a  human 
being,  not  a  saint,  and  he  pursued  a  purpose  selfishly  as 
most  of  us  who  are  human  do. 

The  young  lady  grasped  my  hand  in  both  of  hers  im- 
pulsively. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Baronet,  I  *m  so  glad  to  see  you  again.  I 
knew  you  would  come  to  Topeka  as  soon  as  you  knew 
I  had  come  West.  I  just  got  here  two  days  ago,  and  I 
could  hardly  wait  until  you  came.  It 's  just  like  old  times 
to  see  you  again.*' 

Then  she  turned  to  Tillhurst,  standing  there  greedily 
taking  in  every  word,  his  face  beaming  as  one's  face  may 
who  finds  an  obstacle  suddenly  lifted  from  his  way. 

"  We  are  old  friends,  the  best  kind  of  friends,  Mr.  Till- 
hurst. Mr.  Baronet  and  I  have  recollections  of  two  de- 
lightful years  when  he  was  in  Harvard,  haven't  we?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  replied.  "  Miss  Melrose  was  the  only  girl 
who  would  listen  to  my  praising  Kansas  while  I  was  in 
Massachusetts.  Naturally  I  found  her  delightful  com- 
pany." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  about  his  girl  here?  "  Tillhurst  asked, 
a  trifle  maliciously,  maybe. 

"  Of  course,  I  did  n't,"  I  broke  in.  "  We  don't  tell  all 
we  know  when  we  go  East." 

"  Nor  all  you  have  done  in  the  East  when  you  come 
back  home,  evidently,"  Tillhurst  spoke  significantly. 
"  I  've  never  heard  him  mention  your  name  once,  Miss 
Melrose." 

"Has  he  been  flirting  with  some  one,  Mr.  Tillhurst? 
He  promised  me  faithfully  he  would  n't."  Her  tone  took 
on  a  disappointed  note. 

"  I  '11  promise  anybody  not  to  flirt,  for  I  don't  do  it," 

I  cried.    "  I  came  home  and  found  this  young  educator 

13 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

trying  to  do  me  mischief  with  the  little  girl  I  told  you 
about  the  last  time  I  saw  you.  Naturally  he  does  n't  like 
me." 

All  this  in  a  joking  manner,  and  yet  a  vein  of  serious- 
ness ran  through  it  somewhere. 

Rachel  Melrose  was  adroit. 

"  We  won't  quarrel,"  she  said  sweetly,  "  now  we  do 
meet  again,  and  when  I  go  down  to  Springvale  to  visit 
your  aunt,  as  you  insisted  I  must  do,  we'll  get  all  this 
straightened  out.  You'll  come  and  take  tea  with  us  of 
course.  Mr.  Tillhurst  has  promised  to  come,  too." 

The  young  man  looked  curiously  at  me  at  the  mention 
of  Rachel's  visit  to  Springvale.  A  group  of  politicians 
broke  in  just  here. 

"  We  can't  have  you  monopolize  '  the  handsome  giant 
of  the  Neosho '  all  the  time,"  they  said,  laughing,  with 
many  a  compliment  to  the  charming  young  monopolist. 
"  We  don't  blame  him,  of  course,  now,  but  we  need  him 
badly.  Come,  Baronet,"  and  they  hurried  me  away,  giv- 
ing me  time  only  to  thank  her  for  the  invitation  to  dine 
with  her. 

At  the  Teft  House  letters  were  waiting  for  me.  One 
from  my  father  asking  me  to  visit  Governor  Crawford 
and  take  a  personal  message  of  some  importance  to  him, 
with  the  injunction,  "  Stay  till  you  do  see  him."  The  other 
was  a  fat  little  envelope  inscribed  in  Marjie's  handwriting. 
Inside  were  only  flowers,  the  red  blossoms  that  grow  on 
the  vines  in  the  crevices  of  our  "  Rockport,"  and  a  sheet 
of  note  paper  about  them  with  the  simple  message : 

"  Always  and  always  yours,  Marjie." 

Willing  or  unwilling,  I  found  myself  in  the  thick  of  the 
political  turmoil,  and  had  it  not  been  for  that  Indian  raid- 
ing in  Northwest  Kansas,  I  should  have  plunged  into  poli- 
tics then  and  there,  so  strong  a  temptation  it  is  to  control 

194 


THE    TOPEKA     RALLY 

men,  if  opportunity  offers.  It  was  late  before  I  could  get 
out  of  the  council  and  rush  to  my  room  to  write  a  hurried 
but  loving  letter  to  Marjie.  I  had  to  be  brief  to  get  it 
into  the  mails.  So  I  wrote  only  of  what  was  first  in  my 
thoughts ;  herself,  and  my  longing  to  see  her,  of  the  noisy 
political  strife,  and  of  the  Saline  River  and  Solomon  River 
outrages.  I  hurried  this  letter  to  the  outgoing  stage  and 
fell  in  with  the  crowd  gathering  late  in  the  dining-room. 
I  was  half  way  through  my  meal  before  I  remembered 
Rachel^s  invitation. 

"  I  can  only  be  rude  to  her,  it  seems,  but  I  '11  offer  my 
excuses,  and  maybe  she  will  let  me  have  the  honor  of  her 
company  home.  She  will  hunt  me  up  before  I  get  out  of 
the  hall,  I  am  sure."  So  I  satisfied  myself  and  prepared 
for  the  evening  gathering. 

It  was  much  on  the  order  of  the  other  meeting,  except 
that  only  seasoned  party  leaders  were  given  place  on  the 
programme. 

I  asked  Rachel  for  her  company  home,  but  she  laugh- 
ingly refused  me. 

"  I  must  punish  you,"  she  said.  "  When  do  you  go 
home?" 

"  Not  for  two  days,"  I  replied.  "  I  have  business  for 
my  father  and  the  person  I  am  to  see  is  called  out  of 
town." 

"  Then  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  later  for  you.  You 
go  home  to-morrow,  Mr.  Tillhurst,"  she  said  coquettishly. 
"  Tell  his  friends  in  Springvale,  he  is  busy  up  here."  She 
was  a  pretty  girl,  but  slow  as  I  was,  I  began  to  see  method 
in  her  manner  of  procedure.  I  could  not  be  rude  to  her, 
but  I  resolved  then  not  to  go  one  step  beyond  the  demands 
of  actual  courtesy. 

In  the  crowd  passing  up  to  the  hotel  that  night,  I  fell 
into  step  with  my  father's  soldier  friend,  Morton. 

195 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

"  When  you  get  ready  to  leave  Springvale,  come  out 
and  take  a  claim  on  the  Saline,"  he  said.  "  That  will  be 
a  garden  of  Eden  some  day." 

"  It  seems  to  have  its  serpent  already,  Mr.  Morton,"  I 
replied. 

"  Well,  the  serpent  can  be  crushed.  Come  out  and  help 
us  do  it.  We  need  numbers,  especially  in  men  of  en- 
durance." We  were  at  the  hotel  door.  Morton  bade  me 
good-bye  by  saying,  "  Don't  forget ;  come  our  way  when 
you  get  the  Western  fever." 

Governor  Crawford  returned  too  late  for  me  to  catch 
the  stage  for  Springvale  on  the  same  day.  Having  a 
night  more  to  spend  in  the  capital,  it  seemed  proper  for 
me  to  make  amends  for  my  unpardonable  forgetfulness 
of  Rachel's  Melrose's  invitation  to  tea  by  calling  on  her 
in  the  evening.  Her  aunt's  home  was  at  the  far  side  of 
the  town  beyond  the  modest  square  stone  building  that 
was  called  Lincoln  College  then.  It  was  only  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  State  Capitol,  the  walls  of  the  east  wing 
of  which  were  then  being  built. 

I  remember  it  was  a  beautiful  moonlit  night,  in  early 
August,  and  Rachel  asked  me  to  take  a  stroll  over  the 
prairie  to  the  southwest.  The  day  had  been  very  hot,  and 
the  west  had  piled  up  some  threatening  thunderheads. 
But  the  evening  breezes  fanned  them  away  over  the  far 
horizon  line  and  the  warm  night  air  was  light  and  dry. 
The  sky  was  white  with  the  clear  luminous  moonlight  of 
the  open  Plains  country. 

Rachel  and  I  had  wandered  idly  along  the  gentle  rise  of 
ground  until  we  could  quite  overlook  the  little  treeless 
town  with  this  Lincoln  College  and  the  jagged  portion  of 
the  State  House  wing  gleaming  up  beyond. 

"  Had  n't  we  better  turn  back  now  ?  Your  aunt  cau- 

196 


THE    TOPEKA     RALLY 

tioned  us  two  strangers  here  not  to  get  lost."  I  was  only 
hinting  my  wishes. 

"  Oh,  let 's  go  on  to  that  tree.  It 's  the  only  one  here 
in  this  forsaken  country.  Let 's  pay  our  respects  to  it," 
Rachel  urged. 

She  was  right.  To  an  Easterner's  eye  it  was  a  forsaken 
country.  From  the  Shunganunga  Creek  winding  beneath 
a  burden  of  low,  black  underbrush,  northward  to  the  river 
with  its  fringe  of  huge  cottonwoods,  not  a  tree  broke  the 
line  of  vision  save  this  one  sturdy  young  locust  spreading 
its  lacy  foliage  in  dainty  grace  on  the  very  summit  of  the 
gentle  swell  of  land  between  the  two  streams.  Up  to  its 
pretty  shadowed  spaces  we  took  our  way.  The  grass  was 
dry  and  brown  with  the  August  heat,  and  we  rested 
awhile  on  the  moonlit  prairie. 

Rachel  was  strikingly  handsome,  and  the  soft  light  lent 
a  certain  tone  to  her  beauty.  Her  hair  and  eyes  were 
very  dark,  and  her  face  was  clear  cut.  There  was  a  dash 
of  boldness,  an  assumption  of  authority  all  prettily  ac- 
cented with  smiles  and  dimples  that  was  very  bewitching. 
She  was  a  subtle  flatterer,  and  even  the  wisest  men  may 
be  caught  by  that  bait.  It  was  the  undercurrent  of  sym- 
pathy, product  of  my  life-long  ideals,  my  intense  pity  for 
the  defenceless  frontier,  that  divided  my  mind  and  led 
me  away  from  temptation  that  night. 

"  Rachel  Melrose,  we  must  go  home,"  I  insisted  at 
last.  "  This  tree  is  all  right,  but  I  could  show  you  a 
cottonwood  out  above  the  Neosho  that  dwarfs  this  puny 
locust.  And  yet  this  is  a  gritty  sort  of  sapling  to  stand 
up  here  and  grow  and  grow.  I  wonder  if  ever  the  town 
will  reach  out  so  far  as  this." 

I  am  told  the  tree  is  green  and  beautiful  to-day,  and 
that  it  is  far  inside  the  city  limits,  standing  on  the  old 

197 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

Huntoon  road.  About  it  are  substantial  homes.  South 
of  it  is  a  pretty  park  now,  while  near  it  on  the  west  is  a 
handsome  church,  one  of  the  city's  lions  to  the  stranger, 
for  here  the  world-renowned  author  of  "  In  His  Steps " 
has  preached  every  Sabbath  for  many  years.  But  on  that 
night  it  seemed  far  away  from  the  river  and  the  town 
nestling  beside  it. 

"  I  '11  go  down  and  take  a  look  at  your  cottonwood  be- 
fore I  go  home.  May  I?  You  promised  me  last  Spring." 
Rachel's  voice  was  pleasant  to  hear. 

"  Why,  of  course.  Come  on.  Mr.  Tillhurst  will  be 
there,  I  am  sure,  and  glad  as  I  shall  be  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  you  rogue !  always  hunting  for  somebody  else. 
I  am  not  going  to  loose  you  from  your  promise.  Re- 
member that  you  said  you  'd  let  everybody  else  alone 
when  I  came.  Now  your  Mr.  Tillhurst  can  look  after  all 
the  girls  you  have  been  flirting  with  down  there,  but  you 
are  my  friend.  Did  n't  we  settle  that  in  those  days  to- 
gether at  dear  old  Rockport?  We  '11  just  have  the  happi- 
est time  together,  you  and  I,  and  nobody  shall  interfere 
to  mar  our  pleasure." 

She  was  leaning  toward  me  and  her  big  dark  eyes  were 
full  of  feeling.  I  stood  up  before  her.  "  My  dear  friend," 
I  took  her  hand  and  she  rose  to  her  feet.  "  You  have 
been  very,  very  good  to  me.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  now 
before  you  come  to  Springvale  " —  she  was  close  beside 
me,  her  hand  on  my  arm,  gentle  and  trembling.  I  seemed 
like  a  brute  to  myself,  but  I  went  on.  "  I  want  you  to 
know  that  as  my  aunt's  guest  and  mine,  your  pleasure 
will  be  mine.  But  I  am  not  a  flirt,  and  I  do  not  care  to 
hide  from  you  the  fact  that  my  little  Springvale  girl  is 
the  light  of  my  life.  You  will  understand  why  some 
claims  are  unbreakable.  Now  you  know  this,  let  me  say 
that  it  will  be  my  delight  to  make  your  stay  in  the  West 


THE    TOPEKA     RALLY 

pleasant."  She  bowed  her  proud  head  on  my  arm  and 
the  tears  fell  fast.  "  Oh,  Rachel,  I  'm  a  beast,  a  coarse, 
crude  Westerner.  Forgive  my  plain  speech.  I  only 
wanted  you  to  know." 

But  she  did  n't  want  to  know.  She  wanted  me  to  quit 
saying  anything  to  her  and  her  beautiful  dark  hair  was 
almost  against  my  cheek.  Gently  as  I  could,  I  put  her 
from  me.  Drawing  her  hand  through  my  arm,  I  patted 
it  softly,  and  again  I  declared  myself  the  bluntest  of 
speakers.  She  only  wept  the  more,  and  asked  me  to  take 
her  to  her  aunt's.  I  was  glad  to  do  it,  and  I  bade  her  a 
humble  good-bye  at  the  door.  She  said  not  a  word,  but 
the  pressure  of  her  hand  had  speech.  It  made  me  feel 
that  I  had  cruelly  wronged  her. 

As  I  started  for  town  beyond  the  college,  I  shook  my 
fist  at  that  lone  locust  tree.  "  You  blamed  old  sapling ! 
If  you  ever  tell  what  you  saw  to-night  I  hope  you  '11  die  by 
inches  in  a  prairie  fire." 

Then  I  hurried  to  my  room  and  put  in  the  hours  of  the 
night,  wakeful  and  angry  at  all  the  world,  save  my  own 
Springvale  and  the  dear  little  girl  so  modest  and  true  to 
me.  The  next  day  I  left  Topeka,  hoping  never  to  see  it 
again. 


199 


CHAPTER  XIV 
DEEPENING  GLOOM 

A  yellow  moon  in  splendor  drooping, 

A  tired  queen  with  her  state  oppressed, 
Low  by  rushes  and  sword-grass  stooping, 

Lies  she  soft  on  the  waves  at  rest. 
The  desert  heavens  have  felt  her  sadness; 

The  earth  will  weep  her  some  dewy  tears; 
The  wild  beck  ends  her  tune  of  gladness, 

And  goeth  stilly,  as  soul  that  fears. 

—  JEAN  INGELOW. 

THE  easiest  mental  act  I  ever  performed  was  the  act  of 
forgetting  the  existence  of  Rachel  Melrose.  Before 
the  stage  had  reached  the  divide  beyond  the  Wakarusa 
on  its  southward  journey,  I  was  thinking  only  of  Spring- 
vale  and  of  what  would  be  written  in  the  letter  that  I 
knew  was  waiting  for  me  in  our  "  Rockport."  Oh,  I  was 
a  fond  and  foolish  lover.  I  was  only  twenty-one  and 
Judson  may  have  been  right  about  my  being  callow.  But 
I  was  satisfied  with  myself,  as  youth  and  inexperience 
will  be. 

Travelling  was  slow  in  those  rough-going  times,  and  a 
breakdown  on  a  steep  bit  of  road  delayed  us.  Instead  of 
reaching  home  at  sunset,  we  did  not  reach  the  ford  of  the 
Neosho  until  eight  o'clock.  As  I  went  up  Cliff  Street  I 
turned  by  the  bushes  and  slid  down  the  rough  stairway 
to  the  ledge  below  "  Rockport."  I  had  passed  under  the 

200 


DEEPENING     GLOOM 

broad,  overhanging  shelf  that  made  the  old  playground 
above,  when  I  suddenly  became  aware  of  the  nearness 
of  some  one  to  me,  the  peculiar  consciousness  of  the 
presence  of  a  human  being.  The  place  was  in  deep 
shadow,  although  the  full  moon  was  sailing  in  glory  over 
the  prairies,  as  it  had  done  above  the  lone  Topeka  locust 
tree.  My  daily  visits  here  had  made  each  step  familiar, 
however.  I  was  only  a  few  feet  from  the  cunningly  hid- 
den crevice  that  had  done  post-office  duty  for  Marjie  and 
me  in  the  days  of  our  childhood.  Just  beside  it  was  a  deep 
niche  in  the  wall.  Ordinarily  I  was  free  and  noisy  enough 
in  my  movements,  but  to-night  I  dropped  silently  into  the 
niche  as  some  one  hurried  by  me,  groping  to  find  the  way. 
Instinctively  I  thought  of  Jean  Pahusca,  but  Jean  never 
blundered  like  this.  I  had  had  cause  enough  to  know  his 
swift  motion.  And  besides,  he  had  been  away  from 
Springvale  so  long  that  he  was  only  a  memory  now.  The 
figure  scrambled  to  the  top  rapidly. 

"  I  '11  guess  that 's  petticoats  going  up  there,"  I  said 
mentally,  "  but  who  's  hunting  wild  flowers  out  here  alone 
this  time  of  night?  Somebody  just  as  curious  about  me 
as  I  am  about  her,  no  doubt.  Maybe  some  girl  has  a 
lover's  haunt  down  that  ledge.  I  '11  have  to  find  out. 
Can't  let  my  stairway  out  to  the  general  climbing  public." 

I  was  feeling  for  the  letter  in  the  crevice. 

"  Well,  Marjie  has  tucked  it  in  good  and  safe.  I  did  n't 
know  that  hole  was  so  deep." 

I  found  my  letter  and  hurried  home.  It  was  just  a 
happy,  loving  message  written  when  I  was  away,  and  a 
tinge  of  loneliness  was  in  it.  But  Marjie  was  a  cheery, 
wholesome-spirited  lass  always,  and  took  in  the  world 
from  the  sunny  side. 

"  There  's  a  party  down  at  Anderson's  to-night,  Phil," 
Aunt  Candace  announced,  when  I  was  eating  my  late  sup- 

201 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

per.  "  The  boys  sent  word  for  you  to  come  over  even 
if  you  did  get  home  late.  You  are  pretty  tired,  aren't 
you?" 

"  Never,  if  there  's  a  party  on  the  carpet,"  I  answered 
gayly. 

I  had  nearly  reached  the  Anderson  home,  and  the  noisy 
gayety  of  the  party  was  in  my  ears,  when  two  persons 
met  at  the  gate  and  went  slowly  in  together. 

It  was  Amos  Judson  and  Lettie  Conlow. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  arrangements,  now,  that  is  the  best,"  I 
exclaimed,  as  I  went  in  after  them. 

Tillhurst  was  talking  to  Marjie,  who  did  not  see  me 
enter. 

"  Phil  Baronet !  *  The  handsome  young  giant  of  the 
Neosho,'  "  O'mie  shouted.  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen :  This 
is  the  very  famous  orator  who  got  more  applause  in 
Topeka  this  week  than  the  very  biggest  man  there.  Oh, 
my  prophetic  soul!  but  we  were  proud  av  him." 

"  Well,  I  guess  we  were,"  somebody  else  chimed  in. 
"  Why  did  n't  you  come  home  with  the  crowd,  handsome 
giant?" 

"  He  was  charmed  by  that  pretty  girl,  an  old  sweetheart 
of  his  from  Massachusetts."  Tillhurst  was  speaking. 
"  You  ought  to  have  seen  him  with  her,  could  n't  even 
leave  when  the  rest  of  us  did." 

There  was  a  sudden  silence.  Marjie  was  across  the 
room  from  me,  but  I  could  see  her  face  turn  white.  My 
own  face  flamed,  but  I  controlled  myself.  And  Bud,  the 
blessed  old  tow-head,  came  to  my  rescue. 

"  Good  for  you,  Phil.  Bet  we  Ve  got  one  fellow  to 
make  a  Bothton  girl  open  her  eyeth  even  if  Tillhurtht 
couldn't.  He'th  jutht  jealouth.  But  we  all  know  Phil! 
Nobody  '11  ever  doubt  old  Philip !  " 

It  took  the  edge  off  the  embarrassment,  and  O'mie,  who 

202 


DEEPENING     GLOOM 

had  sidled  over  into  Marjie's  neighborhood,  said  in  a  low 
voice : 

"  Tillhurst  is  a  consummit  liar,  beautiful  to  look  upon. 
That  girl  tagged  Phil.  He  could  n't  get  away  an'  be  a 
gintleman." 

I  did  not  know  then  what  he  was  saying,  but  I  saw  her 
face  bloom  again. 

Later  I  had  her  alone  a  moment.  We  were  eating  wa- 
ter melon  on  the  back  porch,  half  in  the  shadow,  which  we 
did  n't  mind,  of  course. 

"  May  I  take  you  home,  Marjie,  and  tell  you  how  sweet 
that  letter  was?"  I  asked. 

"  Phil,  I  did  n't  know  you  were  coming,  and  Richard 
Tillhurst  asked  me  just  as  you  came  in.  I  saw  Amos 
Judson  coming  my  way,  so  I  made  for  the  nearest  port." 

"And  you  did  right,  dearie,"  I  said  very  softly;  "but, 
Marjie,  don't  forget  you  are  my  girl,  my  only  girl,  and 
I  '11  tell  you  all  about  this  Topeka  business  to-morrow 
night.  No,  I  '11  write  you  a  letter  to-night  when  I  go 
home.  You  '11  find  it  at  *  Rockport '  to-morrow." 

She  smiled  up  at  me  brightly,  saying  contentedly,  "  Oh, 
you  are  always  all  right,  Phil." 

As  we  trailed  into  the  kitchen  from  the  water  melon 
feast,  Lettie  Conlow's  dress  caught  on  a  nail  in  the  floor. 
I  stooped  to  loose  it,  and  rasped  my  hand  against  a  brier 
clinging  to  the  floppy  ruffle  (Lettie  was  much  given  to 
floppy  things  in  dress),  and  behold,  a  sprig  of  little  red 
blossoms  was  sticking  to  the  prickles.  These  blooms  were 
the  kind  Marjie  had  sent  me  in  her  letter  to  Topeka. 
They  grew  only  in  the  crevices  about  the  cliff.  It  flashed 
into  my  mind  instantly  that  it  was  Lettie  who  had  passed 
me  down  on  that  ledge. 

"  I  suppose  I  '11  find  her  under  my  plate  some  morning 
when  I  go  to  breakfast,"  I  said  to  myself.  "  She  is  a 

203 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

trailer  of  the  Plains.     Why  should  she  be  forever  haunt- 
ing my  way,  though?  " 

Fate  was  against  me  that  night.  Judson  was  called 
from  the  party  to  open  the  store.  A  messenger  from  Red 
Range  had  come  posthaste  for  some  merchandise.  We 
did  not  know  until  the  next  day  that  it  was  the  burial 
clothes  for  the  beautiful  young  girl  whose  grave  held 
Dave  Mead's  heart. 

Before  Judson  left,  he  came  to  me  with  Lettie. 

"  Will  you  take  this  young  lady  home  for  me?  I  must 
go  to  the  store  at  once.  Business  before  pleasure  with 
me.  That 's  it,  business  first.  Very  sorry,  Miss  Lettie ; 
Phil  will  see  you  safely  home." 

I  was  in  for  the  obligation.  The  Conlows  lived  four 
blocks  beyond  the  shop  down  toward  the  creek.  The  way 
was  shadowy,  and  Lettie  clung  to  my  arm.  I  was  tired 
from  my  stage  ride  of  a  day  and  a  half,  and  I  had  not 
slept  well  for  two  nights.  I  distrusted  Lettie,  for  I  knew 
her  disposition  as  I  knew  her  father's  before  her. 

"Phil,  why  do  you  hate  me?"  she  asked  at  the  gate. 

"  I  don't  hate  you,  Lettie.  You  use  an  ugly  word  when 
you  say  *  hate,' "  I  replied. 

"  There  's  one  person  I  do  hate,"  she  said  bitterly. 

"  Has  he  given  you  cause?  " 

"  It 's  not  a  man ;  it 's  a  woman.  It 's  Marjie  Whately," 
she  burst  out.  "  I  hate  her." 

"  Well,  Lettie,  I  'm  sorry,  for  I  don't  believe  Marjie 
deserves  your  hate." 

"  Of  course,  you  'd  say  so.  But  never  mind.  Marjie  's 
not  going  to  have  my  hate  alone.  You  '11  feel  like  I  do 
yet,  when  her  mother  forces  her  away  from  you.  Mar- 
jie 's  just  a  putty  ball  in  her  mother's  hands,  and  her 
mother  is  crazy  about  Amos  Judson.  Oh,  I  've  said  too 
much,"  she  exclaimed. 

204 


DEEPENING     GLOOM 

"  You  have,  Lettie ;  but  stop  saying  any  more."  I 
spoke  sternly.  "  Good-night." 

She  did  not  return  my  greeting,  and  I  heard  her  slam 
the  door  behind  her. 

That  night,  late  as  it  was,  I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Mar- 
jie.  I  had  no  pangs  of  jealousy,  and  I  felt  that  she  knew 
me  too  well  to  doubt  my  faith,  and  yet  I  wanted  just  once 
more  to  assure  her.  When  I  had  finished,  I  went  out 
softly  and  took  my  way  down  to  "  Rockport."  It  was 
one  of  those  glorious  midsummer  moonlit  nights  that  have 
in  their  subdued  splendor  something  more  regal  than  the 
most  gorgeous  midday.  I  was  thankful  afterwards  for 
the  perfect  beauty  of  that  peaceful  night,  with  never  a 
hint  of  the  encroaching  shadows,  the  deep  gloom  of  sor- 
row creeping  toward  me  and  my  loved  one.  The  town 
was  sleeping  quietly.  The  Neosho  was  "  chattering  over 
stony  ways,"  and  whispering  its  midnight  melody.  The 
wooded  bottoms  were  black  and  glistening,  and  all  the 
prairies  were  a  gleaming,  silvery  sea  of  glory.  The  peace 
of  God  was  on  the  world,  the  broad  benediction  of  serenity 
and  love.  Oh,  many  a  picture  have  I  in  my  memory's 
treasure  house,  that  imperishable  art  gallery  of  the  soul. 
And  among  them  all,  this  one  last  happy  night  with  its 
setting  of  Nature's  grand  handiwork  stands  clear  ever- 
more. 

I  had  put  my  letter  safe  in  its  place,  deep  where  nobody 
but  Marjie  would  find  it.  I  knew  that  if  even  the  slight- 
est doubt  troubled  her  this  letter  would  lift  it  clean  away. 
I  told  her  of  Rachel  Melrose  and  of  my  fear  of  her  de- 
signing nature,  a  fear  that  grew,  as  I  reflected  on  her 
acts  and  words.  I  did  not  believe  the  young  lady  cared 
for  me.  It  was  a  selfish  wish  to  take  what  belonged  to 
somebody  else.  I  assured  my  little  girl  that  only  as  a 
gentleman  should  be  courteous,  had  been  my  courtesy  to 

205 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

Rachel.  And  then  for  the  first  time,  I  told  Marjie  of 
her  father's  dying  message.  I  had  wanted  her  to  love 
me  for  myself.  I  did  not  want  any  sense  of  duty  to  her 
father's  wishes  to  sway  her.  I  knew  now  that  she  did 
love  me.  And  I  closed  the  affectionate  missive  with  the 
words : 

"  To  my  father  and  Aunt  Candace  you  are  very  dear. 
Your  mother  has  always  been  kind  to  me.  I  believe  she 
likes  me.  But  most  of  all,  Marjie,  your  father,  who 
lies  wrapped  in  the  folds  of  that  Springvale  flag,  who 
gave  his  life  to  make  safe  and  happy  the  land  we  love 
and  the  home  we  hope  to  build,  your  father,  sent  us  his 
blessing.  When  the  roar  of  cannon  was  changing  for 
him  to  the  chant  of  seraphim,  and  the  glare  of  the  battle 
field  was  becoming  '  a  sea  of  glass  mingled  with  fire '  that 
burst  in  splendor  over  the  jewelled  walls  and  battle- 
ments of  the  New  Jerusalem,  even  in  that  moment,  his 
last  thought  was  of  us  two.  'I  hope  they  will  love 
each  other/  he  said  to  my  father.  '  If  they  do,  give  them 
my  blessing.'  And  then  the  night  shut  down  for  him. 
But  in  the  eternal  day  where  he  waits  our  coming  and 
loves  us,  Marjie,  if  he  knows  of  what  we  do  here,  he  is 
blessing  our  love. 

"  Good-night,  my  dear,  dear  girl,  my  wife  that  is  to 
be,  and  know  now  and  always  there  is  for  me  only 
one  love.  In  sunny  ways  or  shadow-checkered  paths, 
whatever  may  come,  I  cannot  think  other  than  as  I  do 
now.  You  are  life  of  my  life.  And  so  again,  good- 
night." 

I  had  climbed  to  the  rock  above  the  crevice  and  was 
standing  still  as  the  night  about  me  for  the  moment  when 
a  grip  like  steel  suddenly  closed  on  my  neck  and  an  arm 
like  the  tentacle  of  a  devilfish  slid  round  my  waist.  Then 

206 


DEEPENING     GLOOM 

the  swift  adroitness  of  knee  and  shoulder  bent  me  back- 
ward almost  off  my  feet.  I  gave  a  great  wrench,  and  with 
a  power  equal  to  my  assailant,  struggled  with  him.  It 
was  some  moments  before  I  caught  sight  of  his  face. 
It  was  Jean  Pahusca.  I  think  my  strength  grew  four- 
fold with  that  glimpse.  It  was  the  first  time  in  our 
lives  that  we  had  matched  muscle.  He  must  have  been 
the  stronger  of  the  two,  but  discipline  and  temperate 
habits  had  given  me  endurance  and  judgment.  It  was 
a  life-and-death  strife  between  us.  He  tried  to  drag  me 
to  the  edge  of  the  rock.  I  strove  to  get  him  through 
the  bushes  into  the  street.  At  length  I  gained  the  mas- 
tery and  with  my  hand  on  his  throat  and  my  knee  on 
his  chest  I  held  him  fast. 

"  You  miserable  devil !  "  I  muttered,  "  you  have  the 
wrong  man.  You  think  me  weak  as  O'mie,  whose  body 
you  could  bind.  I  have  a  mind  to  choke  you  here,  you 
murderer.  I  could  do  it  and  rid  the  world  of  you,  now." 
He  struggled  and  I  gave  him  air.  There  was  something 
princely  about  him  even  as  he  lay  in  my  power.  And, 
fiend  as  he  was,  he  never  lost  the  spirit  of  a  master.  To 
me  also,  brute  violence  was  repulsive  now  that  the  ad- 
vantage was  all  mine. 

"  You  deserve  to  die.  Heaven  is  saving  you  for  a  fate 
you  may  well  dread.  You  would  be  in  jail  in  ten  minutes 
if  you  ever  showed  your  face  here  in  the  daylight,  and 
hanged  by  the  first  jury  whose  verdict  could  be  given. 
I  could  save  all  that  trouble  now  in  a  minute,  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  murderer  like  you.  For  the  sake  of  my 
own  hands  and  for  the  sake  of  the  man  whose  son  I  be- 
lieve you  to  be,  I  '11  spare  your  life  to-night  on  one  con- 
dition!" 

I  loosed  my  hold  and  stepped  away  from  him.  He 
rose  with  an  effort,  but  he  could  not  stand  at  first. 

207 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  Leave  this  country  to-night,  and  never  show  your 
face  here  again.  There  are  friends  of  O'mie's  sworn  to 
shoot  you  on  sight.  Go  now  to  your  own  tribe  and  do 
it  quickly." 

Slowly,  like  a  promise  made  before  high  heaven,  he 
answered  me. 

"  I  will  go,  but  I  shall  see  you  there.  When  we  meet 
again,  my  hand  will  have  you  by  the  throat.  And  —  I 
don't  care  whose  son  you  are." 

He  slid  down  the  cliff-side  like  a  lizard,  and  was  gone. 
I  turned  and  stumbled  through  the  bushes  full  into  Lettie 
Conlow  crouching  among  them. 

"  Lettie,  Lettie,"  I  cried,  "  go  home." 

"  I  won't  unless  you  will  come  with  me,"  she  answered 
coaxingly. 

"  I  have  taken  you  home  once  to-night,"  I  said.  "  Now 
you  may  go  alone  or  stay  here  as  you  choose,"  and  I  left 
her. 

"  You  '11  live  to  see  the  day  you  '11  wish  you  had  n't 
said  that,"  I  heard  her  mutter  threateningly  behind 
me. 

A  gray  mist  had  crept  over  the  low-hanging  moon. 
The  world,  so  glorious  in  its  softened  radiance  half  an 
hour  ago,  was  dull  and  cheerless  now.  And  with  a  strange 
heartache  and  sense  of  impending  evil  I  sought  my  home. 

The  next  day  was  a  busy  one  in  the  office.  My  father 
was  deep  in  the  tangle  of  a  legal  case  and  more  than 
usually  grave.  Early  in  the  afternoon,  Cam  Gentry  had 
come  into  the  courthouse,  and  the  two  had  a  long  con- 
ference. Toward  evening  he  called  me  into  his  private 
office. 

"  Phil,  this  land  case  is  troubling  me.  I  believe  the 
papers  we  want  are  in  that  old  cabin.  Could  you  go 
out  again  to-morrow?  "  He  smiled  now.  "  Go  and  make 

208 


DEEPENING    GLOOM 

a  careful  search  of  the  premises.  If  there  are  any  boxes, 
open  them.  I  will  give  you  an  order  from  Sheriff  Karr. 
And  Phil,  I  believe  I  wouldn't  take  Marjie  this  time.  I 
want  to  have  a  talk  with  her  to-morrow,  anyhow.  You 
can't  monopolize  all  her  time.  I  saw  Mrs.  Whately  just 
now  and  made  an  appointment  with  her  for  Marjie." 

When  he  spoke  again,  his  words  startled  me. 

"Phil,  when  did  you  see  Jean  Pahusca  last?" 

"  Last  night,  no,  this  morning,  about  one  o'clock,"  I 
answered  confusedly. 

My  father  swung  around  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  me. 
Then  his  face  grew  stern,  and  I  knew  my  safety  lay  in 
the  whole  truth.  I  learned  that  when  I  was  a  boy. 

"  Where  was  he?  "     The  firing  had  begun. 

"  On  the  point  of  rock  by  the  bushes  on  Cliff  Street." 

"  What  were  you  doing  there  ?  " 

"  Looking  at  the  moonlight  on  the  river." 

"Did  you  see  him  first?" 

"  No,  or  he  would  not  have  seen  me." 

"  Phil,  save  my  time  now.  It 's  a  matter  of  great  im- 
portance to  my  business.  Also,  it  is  serious  with  you. 
Begin  at  the  party.  Whose  escort  were  you?  " 

"  Lettie  Conlow's." 

My  father  looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes.  I  returned 
his  gaze  steadily. 

"  Go  on.     Tell  me  everything."     He  spoke  crisply. 

"I  was  late  to  the  party.  Tillhurst  asked  Marjie  for 
her  company  just  as  I  went  in.  Judson  was  going  her 
way,  and  she  chose  the  lesser  of  two  —  pleasures,  we  '11 
say.  Just  before  the  party  broke  up,  Judson  was  called 
out.  He  had  asked  Lettie  for  her  company,  and  he 
shoved  her  over  to  my  tender  mercies." 

"  And  you  went  strolling  up  on  Cliff  Street  in  the  moon- 
light with  her  till  after  midnight.  Is  that  fair  to  Marjie?  " 
14  209  ,. 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

I  had  never  heard  his  voice  sound  so  like  resonant  iron 
before. 

"I,  strolling?  I  covered  the  seven  blocks  from  An- 
derson's to  Conlow's  in  seven  minutes,  and  stood  at  the 
gate  long  enough  to  let  the  young  lady  through,  and  to 
pinch  my  thumb  in  the  blamed  old  latch,  I  was  in  such 
a  hurry;  and  then  I  made  for  the  Baronets'  roost." 

"  But  why  did  n't  you  stay  there  ?  "  he  asked. 

I  blushed  for  a  certainty  now.  My  actions  seemed  so 
like  a  brain-sick  fool's. 

"  Now,  Phil,"  my  father  said  more  kindly,  "  you  re- 
member I  told  you  when  you  came  to  let  me  know  you 
were  twenty-one,  that  you  must  not  get  too  old  to  make 
a  confidant  of  me.  It  is  your  only  safe  course  now." 

"  Father,  am  I  a  fool,  or  is  it  in  the  Baronet  blood  to 
love  deeply  and  constantly  even  unto  death?" 

The  strong  man  before  me  turned  his  face  to  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said. 

"  I  had  been  away  nearly  a  week.  I  sat  up  and  wrote 
a  long  letter  to  Marjie.  It  would  stand  as  clean  evidence 
in  court,  I  'm  not  ashamed  of  what  I  put  on  paper,  al- 
though it  is  my  own  business.  Then  I  went  out  to  a 
certain  place  under  the  cliff  where  Marjie  and  I  used  to 
hide  our  valentines  and  put  little  notes  for  each  other 
years  ago." 

"  The  post-office  is  safer,  Phil." 

"  Not  with  Tell  Mapleson  as  postmaster." 

He  assented,  and  I  went  on.  "  I  had  come  to  the  top 
again  and  was  looking  at  the  beauty  of  the  night,  when 
somebody  caught  me  by  the  throat.  It  was  Jean  Pa- 
husca." 

Briefly  then  I  related  what  had  taken  place. 

"And  after  that?"  queried  my  questioner. 

210 


DEEPENING     GLOOM 

"  I  ran  into  Lettie  Conlow.  She  may  have  been  there 
all  the  time.  I  do  not  know,  but  I  felt  no  obligation  to 
take  care  of  a  girl  who  will  not  take  care  of  herself.  It 
was  rude,  I  know,  and  against  my  creed,  but  that 's  the 
whole  truth.  I  may  be  a  certain  kind  of  a  fool  about  a 
girl  I  know.  But  I  'm  not  the  kind  of  gay  fool  that  goes 
out  after  divers  and  strange  women.  Bill  Mead  told  me 
this  morning  that  he  and  Bud  Anderson  passed  Lettie 
somewhere  out  west  alone  after  one  o'clock.  He  was  in 
a  hurry,  but  he  stopped  her  and  asked  her  why  she  should 
be  out  alone.  I  think  Bud  went  home  with  her.  None 
of  the  boys  want  harm  to  come  to  her,  but  she  grows 
less  pleasant  every  day.  Bill  would  have  gone  home 
with  her,  but  he  was  hurrying  out  to  Red  Range.  Dave's 
girl  died  out  there  last  night.  Poor  Dave !  " 

"  Poor  Dave !  "  my  father  echoed,  and  we  sat  in  silence 
with  our  sympathy  going  out  to  the  fine  young  man 
whose  day  was  full  of  sorrow. 

"  Well,"  my  father  said,  "  to  come  back  to  our  work 
now.  There  are  some  ugly  stories  going  that  I  have 
yet  to  get  hold  of.  Cam  Gentry  is  helping  me  toward  it 
all  he  can.  This  land  case  will  never  come  to  court  if 
Mapleson  can  possibly  secure  the  land  in  any  other  way. 
He  'd  like  to  ruin  us  and  pay  off  that  old  grudge  against 
you  for  your  part  in  breaking  up  the  plot  against  Spring- 
vale  back  in  '63  and  the  suspicion  it  cast  on  him.  Do 
you  see?" 

I  was  beginning  to  see  a  little. 

"  Now,  you  go  out  to  the  stone  cabin  to-morrow  after- 
noon and  make  a  thorough  search  for  any  papers  or  other 
evidence  hidden  there.  The  man  who  owned  that  land 
was  a  degenerate  son  of  a  noble  house.  There  are  some 
missing  links  in  the  evidence  that  our  claim  is  incon- 
testable. The  other  claimant  to  the  land  is  entirely  un- 

211 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

der  Tell  Mapleson's  control.  That's  the  way  it  shapes 
up  to  me.  Meanwhile  if  it  gets  into  court,  two  or  more 
lines  are  ready  to  tighten  about  you.  Keep  yourself  in 
straight  paths  and  you  are  sure  at  last  to  win.  I  have 
no  fear  for  you,  Phil,  but  be  a  man  every  minute." 

I  understood  him.  As  I  left  the  courthouse,  I  met 
O'mie.  There  was  a  strange,  pathetic  look  in  his  eyes. 
He  linked  his  arm  in  mine,  and  we  sauntered  out  under 
the  oak  trees  of  the  courthouse  grounds. 

"  Phil,  do  ye  remimber  that  May  mornin'  when  ye  broke 
through  the  vines  av  the  Hermit's  Cave?  I  know  now 
how  the  pityin'  face  av  the  Christ  looked  to  the  man 
who  had  been  blind.  I  know  how  the  touch  av  his  hands 
felt  to  them  as  had  been  lepers.  They  was  made  free 
and  safe.  Wake  as  I  was  that  sorry  mornin'  I  had  one 
thought  before  me  brain  wint  dark,  the  thought  that  I 
might  some  day  help  you  aven  a  little.  I  felt  that  way 
in  me  wakeness  thin.  To-day  in  me  strength  I  feel  it 
a  hundred  times  more.  Ye  may  not  nade  me,  but  whin 
ye  do,  I  'm  here.  Whin  I  was  a  poor  lost  orphan  boy, 
worth  nothin'  to  nobody,  you  risked  life  an'  limb  to 
drag  me  back  from  the  agony  av  a  death  by  inches.  And 
now,  while  I  'm  only  a  rid-headed  Irishman,  I  can  do  a 
dale  more  thinkin'  and  I  know  a  blamed  lot  more  'n  this 
blessed  little  burg  iver  drames  of.  They  ain't  no  blood- 
hound on  your  track,  but  a  ugly  octopus  of  a  devilfish 
is  gittin*  its  arms  out  after  you.  They  's  several  av  'em. 
Don't  forgit,  Phil ;  I  know  I  'd  die  for  your  sake." 

"  O'mie,  I  believe  you,  but  don't  be  uneasy  about  me. 
You  know  me  as  well  as  anybody  in  this  town.  What 
have  I  to  fear?" 

"  Begorra,  there  was  niver  a  purer-hearted  boy  than 
you  iver  walked  out  of  a  fun-lovin',  rollickin'  boyhood 
into  a  clane,  honest  manhood.  You  can't  be  touched." 

212 


DEEPENING    GLOOM 

Just  then  the  evening  stage  swung  by  and  swept  up 
the  hill. 

"Look  at  the  ould  man,  now,  would  ye?  Phil,  he's, 
makin'  fur  Bar'net's.  Bet  some  av  your  rich  kin 's  comin' 
from  the  East,  bringing  you  their  out-av-style  clothes, 
an*  a  few  good  little  books  and  Sunday-school  tracts  to 
improve  ye." 

There  was  only  one  passenger  in  the  stage,  a  woman 
whose  face  I  could  not  see. 

That  evening  O'mie  went  to  Judson  at  closing  time. 

"  Mr.  Judson,  I  want  a  lave  of  absence  fur  a  week  or 
tin  days,"  he  said. 

"What  for?"  Judson  was  the  kind  of  man  who  could 
never  be  pleasant  to  his  employees,  for  fear  of  losing  his 
authority  over  them. 

"  I  want  to  go  out  av  town  on  business,"  O'mie  re- 
plied. 

"Whose  business?"  snapped  Judson. 

"  Me  own,"  responded  O'mie  calmly. 

"  I  can't  have  it.  That 's  it.  I  just  can't  have  my  clerks 
and  underlings  running  around  over  the  country  taking 
my  time." 

"  Then  I  '11  lave  your  time  here  whin  I  go,"  O'mie 
spoke  coolly.  He  had  always  been  respectful  toward 
his  employer,  but  he  had  no  servile  fear  of  him. 

"  I  just  can't  allow  it,"  Judson  went  on.  "  I  need  you 
here."  O'mie  was  the  life  of  the  business,  the  best  asset 
in  the  store.  "  It  may  be  a  slack  time,  but  I  can't  have 
it;  that's  it,  I  just  can't  put  up  with  it.  Besides,"  he 
simpered  a  little,  in  spite  of  himself,  "  besides,  I  'm  likely 
to  be  off  a  few  days  myself,  just  any  time,  I  can  get 
ready  for  a  step  I  have  in  mind,  an  important  step,  just  any 
minute,  but  it 's  different  with  some  others,  and  we  have 
to  regard  some  others,  you  know;  have  to  let  some  others 

213 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

have  their  way  once  in  a  while.     We  '11  consider  it  set- 
tled now.     You  are  to  stay  right  here." 

'  Ye  '11  consider  it  settled  that  I  'm  nadin'  a  tin  days' 
vacation  right  away,  an'  must  have  it." 

"I  can't  do  it,  O'Meara;  that's  it.  I  would  not  give 
you  your  place  again,  and  I  won't  pay  you  a  cent  of 
this  quarter's  salary." 

Judson's  foolish  temper  was  always  his  undoing. 

"You  say  you  won't?"  O'mie  asked  with  a  smile. 

"  No,  I  won't.  Hereafter  you  may  beg  your  way  or 
starve !  "  Judson  fairly  shouted. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Amos  Judson,  but  I  'm  not  to  thim 
straits  yit.  Not  yit.  I  've  a  little  bank  account  an'  a 
good  name  at  Cris  Mead's  bank.  Most  as  good  as  yours." 

The  shot  went  home.  Judson  had  but  recently  failed 
to  get  the  bank's  backing  in  a  business  dealing  he  had 
hoped  to  carry  through  on  loans,  and  it  had  cut  his  vanity 
deeply. 

"  Good-bye,  Amos,  I  '11  be  back,  but  not  any  sooner 
than  ye  nade  me,"  and  he  was  gone. 

The  next  day  Dever  the  stage  driver  told  us  O'mie 
was  going  up  to  Wyandot  on  business. 

"Whose  business?"  I  asked.  "He  doesn't  know  a 
soul  in  Wyandotte,  except  Tell  and  Jim,  who  were  work- 
ing up  there  the  last  I  knew.  Tell  may  be  in  Fort  Scott 
now.  Whose  business  was  it?  " 

"  That 's  what  I  asked  him,"  Dever  answered  with  a 
grin,  "  and  he  said,  his  own." 

Whatever  it  was,  O'mie  was  back  again  before  the  end 
of  the  week.  But  he  idled  about  for  the  full  ten  days, 
until  Judson  grew  frantic.  The  store  could  not  be  man- 
aged without  him,  and  it  was  gratifying  to  O'mie's  mis- 
chievous spirit  to  be  solicited  with  pledge  and  courtesy 
to  take  his  place  again. 

214 


DEEPENING     GLOOM 

After  O'mie  had  left  me  in  the  courthouse  yard,  the 
evening  after  the  party,  I  stopped  on  my  way  home  to  see 
Marjie  a  moment.  She  had  gone  with  the  Meads  out  to 
Red  Range,  her  mother  said,  and  might  not  be  back  till 
late,  possibly  not  till  to-morrow.  Judson  was  sitting  in 
the  room  when  I  came  to  the  door.  I  had  no  especial 
reason  to  think  Mrs.  Whately  was  confused  by  my  com- 
ing. She  was  always  kind  to  everybody.  But  somehow 
the  gray  shadows  of  the  clouded  moon  of  the  night  be- 
fore were  chilling  me  still,  and  I  was  bitterly  disappointed 
at  missing  my  loved  one's  face  in  her  home.  It  seemed 
ages  since  I  had  had  her  to  myself;  not  since  the  night 
before  my  trip  to  Topeka.  I  stopped  long  enough  to 
visit  the  "  Rockport "  letter-box  for  the  answer  to  my 
letter  I  knew  she  would  leave  before  she  went  out  of 
town.  There  was  no  letter  there.  My  heart  grew  heavy 
with  a  weight  that  was  not  to  lift  again  for  many  a  long 
day.  Up  on  the  street  I  met  Dr.  Hemingway.  His  kind 
eyes  seemed  to  penetrate  to  my  very  soul. 

"  Good-evening,  Philip,"  he  said  pleasantly,  grasping 
my  hand  with  a  firm  pressure.  "  Your  face  is  n't  often 
clouded." 

I  tried  to  look  cheerful.  "  Oh,  it 's  just  the  weather 
and  some  loss  of  sleep.  Kansas  Augusts  are  pretty  try- 
ing." 

"They  should  not  be  to  a  young  man,"  he  replied. 
"  All  weathers  suit  us  if  we  are  at  peace  within.  That 's 
where  the  storm  really  begins." 

"  Maybe  so,"  I  said.  "  But  I  'm  all  right,  inside  and 
out." 

"  You  look  it,  Philip."  He  took  my  hand  affectionately. 
"  You  are  the  very  image  of  clean,  strong  manhood. 
Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled." 

I  returned  his  hand-clasp  and  went  my  way.  How- 

215 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

ever  much  courage  it  may  take  to  push  forward  to  vic- 
tory or  death  on  the  battle  field,  not  the  least  of  heroism 
does  it  sometimes  require  to  walk  bravely  toward  the  deep- 
ening gloom  of  an  impending  ill.  I  have  followed  both 
paths  and  I  know  what  each  one  demands. 

At  our  doorway,  waiting  to  welcome  me,  stood  Rachel 
Melrose,  smiling,  sure,  and  effusively  demonstrative  in 
her  friendship.  She  must  have  followed  me  on  the  next 
stage  out  of  Topeka.  Behind  her  stood  Candace  Baro- 
net, the  only  woman  I  have  ever  known  who  never  in 
all  my  life  doubted  me  nor  misunderstood  me.  Some- 
how the  sunset  was  colorless  to  me  that  night,  and  all 
the  rippling  waves  of  wide  West  Prairie  were  shorn 
of  their  glory. 


216 


CHAPTER  XV 
ROCKPORT  AND  "ROCKPORT" 

Glitters  the  dew,  and  shines  the  river, 

Up  comes  the  lily  and  dries  her  bell; 
But  two  are  walking  apart  forever, 

And  wave  their  hands  in  a  mute  farewell. 

—  JEAN  INGELOW. 

THE  Melrose  family  was  of  old  time  on  terms  of  in- 
timacy with  the  house  of  Baronet.  It  was  a  family 
with  a  proud  lineage,  wealth,  and  culture  to  its  credit. 
Rachel  had  an  inherited  sense  of  superiority.  Too  much 
staying  between  the  White  Mountains  and  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  is  narrowing  to  the  mental  scope.  The  West  to 
her  was  but  a  wilderness  whereto  the  best  things  of  life 
never  found  their  way.  She  took  everything  in  Massa- 
chusetts as  hers  by  due  right,  much  more  did  it  seem 
that  Kansas  should  give  its  best  to  her;  and  withal  she 
was  a  woman  who  delighted  in  conquest. 

Her  arrival  in  Springvale  made  a  topic  that  was  soon 
on  everybody's  tongue.  In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  fol- 
lowing her  coming,  when  I  went  to  my  father's  office 
before  starting  out  to  the  stone  cabin,  I  found  Marjie 
there.  I  had  not  seen  her  since  the  party,  and  I  went 
straight  to  her  chair. 

"Well,  little  girl,  it's  ten  thousand  years  since 
I  saw  you  last,"  I  spoke  in  a  low  voice.  My  father  was 
searching  for  some  papers  in  his  cabinet,  and  his  back 
was  toward  us.  "Why  didn't  I  get  a  letter,  dearie?" 

217 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

She  looked  up  with  eyes  whose  brown  depths  were  full 
of  pain  and  sorrow,  but  with  an  expression  I  had  never 
seen  on  her  face  before,  a  kind  of  impenetrable  coldness. 
It  cut  me  like  a  sword-thrust,  and  I  bent  over  her. 

"Oh,  Marjie,  my  Marjie,  what  is  wrong?" 

"  Here  is  that  paper  at  last,"  my  father  said  before  he 
turned  around.  Even  as  he  spoke,  Rachel  Melrose  swept 
into  the  room. 

"  Why,  Philip,  I  missed  you  after  all.  I  did  n't  mean 
to  keep  you  waiting,  but  I  can  never  get  accustomed  to 
your  Western  hurry." 

She  was  very  handsome  and  graceful,  and  always  at 
ease  with  me,  save  in  our  interviews  alone. 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  were  coming,"  I  said  frankly ; 
"  but  I  want  you  to  meet  Miss  Whately.  This  is  the 
young  lady  I  have  told  you  about." 

I  took  Marjie's  hand  as  I  spoke.  It  was  cold,  and  I 
gave  it  the  gentle  pressure  a  lover  understands  as  I 
presented  her.  She  gave  me  a  momentary  glance.  Oh, 
God  be  thanked  for  the  love-light  in  those  brown  eyes! 
The  memory  of  it  warmed  my  heart  a  thousand  times 
when  long  weary  miles  were  between  us,  and  a  desolate 
sky  shut  down  around  the  far  desolate  plains  of  a  silent, 
featureless  land. 

"  And  this  is  Miss  Melrose,  the  young  lady  I  told  you 
of  in  my  letter,"  I  said  to  Marjie.  A  quick  change  came 
into  her  eyes,  a  look  of  surprise  and  incredulity  and 
scorn.  What  could  have  happened  to  bring  all  this  about? 

Rachel  Melrose  had  made  the  fatal  mistake  of  thinking 
that  no  girl  reared  west  of  the  Alleghenies  could  be  very 
refined  or  at  ease  or  appear  well  dressed  in  the  company 
of  Eastern  people.  She  was  not  prepared  for  the  quiet 
courtesy  and  self-possession  with  which  the  Kansas  girl 
greeted  her;  nor  had  she  expected,  as  she  told  me  after- 

218 


ROCKPORT    AND     "ROCKPORT' 

ward,  to  find  in  a  town  like  Springvale  such  good  taste 
and  exquisite  neatness  in  dress.  True,  she  had  many 
little  accessories  of  an  up-to-date  fashion  that  had  not 
gotten  across  the  Mississippi  River  to  our  girls  as  yet, 
but  Marjie  had  the  grace  of  always  choosing  the  right 
thing  to  wear.  I  was  very  proud  of  my  loved  one  at 
that  moment.  There  was  a  show  of  cordiality  between 
the  two;  then  Rachel  turned  to  me. 

"  I  'm  going  with  you  this  afternoon.  Excuse  me,  Miss 
Whately,  Mr.  Baronet  promised  me  up  at  Topeka  to 
take  me  out  to  see  a  wonderful  cottonwood  tree  that  he 
said  just  dwarfed  the  little  locust  there,  that  we  went 
out  one  glorious  moonlight  night  to  see.  It  was  a  lovely 
stroll  though,  was  n't  it,  Philip  ?  " 

This  time  it  was  my  father's  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon 
me  in  surprise  and  stern  inquiry. 

"  He  will  believe  I  am  a  flirt  after  all.  It  is  n't  possible 
to  make  any  man  understand  how  that  miserable  girl 
can  control  things,  unless  he  is  on  the  ground  all  the 
time."  So  ran  my  thoughts. 

"  Father,  must  that  trip  be  made  to-day?  Because  I  'd 
rather  get  up  a  party  and  go  out  when  Miss  Melrose 
goes." 

But  my  father  was  in  no  mood  to  help  me  then.  He  had 
asked  me  to  go  alone.  Evidently  he  thought  I  had  for- 
gotten business  and  constancy  of  purpose  in  the  presence 
of  this  pretty  girl. 

"  It  must  be  done  to-day.  Miss  Melrose  will  wait,  I  'm 
sure.  It  is  a  serious  business  matter — " 

"  Oh,  but  I  won't,  Mr.  Baronet.  Your  son  promised 
me  to  do  everything  for  me  if  I  would  only  come  to 
Springvale;  that  was  away  last  Spring,  and  my  stay 
will  be  short  at  best.  I  must  go  back  to-morrow  after- 
noon. Don't  rob  us  of  a  minute." 

219 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

She  spoke  with  such  a  pretty  grace,  and  yet  her  words 
were  so  trifling  that  my  father  must  have  felt  as  I  did. 
He  could  have  helped  me  then  had  he  thought  that  I 
deserved  help,  for  he  was  a  tactful  man.  But  he  merely 
assented  and  sent  us  away.  When  we  were  gone  Marjie 
turned  to  him  bravely. 

"Judge  Baronet,  I  think  I  will  go  home.  I  came  in 
from  Red  Range  this  noon  with  the  Meads.  It  was  very 
warm,  coming  east,  and  I  am  not  very  well."  She  was 
as  white  as  marble.  "  I  will  see  you  again ;  may  I  ?  " 

John  Baronet  was  a  man  of  deep  sympathy  as  well 
as  insight.  He  knew  why  the  bloom  had  left  her  cheeks. 

"  All  right,  Marjie.     You  will  be  better  soon." 

He  had  risen  and  taken  her  cold  hand.  There  was  a 
world  of  cheer  and  strength  in  that  rich  resonant  voice 
of  his.  "  Little  girl,  you  must  not  worry  over  anything. 
All  the  tangles  will  straighten  for  you.  Be  patient,  the 
sunshine  is  back  of  all  shadows.  I  promised  your  father, 
Marjory,  that  no  harm  should  come  to  you.  I  will  keep 
my  promise.  '  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled.' "  His 
words  were  to  her  what  the  good  minister's  had  been 
to  me. 

In  the  months  that  came  after  that  my  father  was  her 
one  strong  defence.  Poor  Marjie!  her  days  as  well  as 
mine  were  full  of  creeping  shadows.  I  had  no  notion  of 
the  stories  being  poured  into  her  ears,  nor  did  I  dream 
of  the  mischief  and  sorrow  that  can  be  wrought  by  a 
jealous-hearted  girl,  a  grasping  money  lover,  and  a  man 
whose  business  dealings  will  not  bear  the  light  of  day. 

It  has  ever  been  the  stage-driver's  province  to  make 
the  town  acquainted  with  the  business  of  each  passenger 
whom  he  imports  or  exports.  Our  man,  Dever,  was  no 
exception.  Judson's  store  had  become  the  centre  of  all 
the  gossip  in  Springvale.  Judson  himself  was  the  prince 

220 


ROCKPORT    AND     "ROCKPORT" 

of  scandalmongers,  who  with  a  pretence  of  refusing  to 
hear  gossip,  peddled  it  out  most  industriously.  He  had 
hurried  to  Mrs.  Whately  with  the  story  of  our  guest,  and 
here  I  found  him  when  I  went  to  see  Marjie,  before  I 
myself  knew  what  passenger  the  stage  had  carried  up  to 
Cliff  Street. 

After  the  party  at  Anderson's,  Tillhurst  had  not  lost 
the  opportunity  of  giving  his  version  of  all  he  had  seen  and 
heard  in  Topeka.  Marjie  listened  in  amazement  but 
sure  in  her  trustful  heart  that  I  would  make  it  all  clear 
to  her  in  my  letter.  And  yet  she  wondered  why  I  had 
never  mentioned  that  name  to  her,  nor  given  her  any  hint 
of  any  one  with  claim  enough  on  me  to  keep  me  for  two 
days  in  Topeka.  After  all,  she  did  recall  the  name  — 
something  forgotten  in  the  joy  and  peace  of  that  sweet 
afternoon  out  by  the  river  in  the  draw  where  the  haunted 
house  was.  Had  I  tried  to  tell  her  and  lost  my  courage, 
she  wondered.  Oh,  no,  it  could  not  be  so. 

The  next  day  Marjie  spent  at  Red  Range.  It  was  noon 
of  the  day  following  Rachel's  arrival  before  she  reached 
home.  The  ride  in  the  midday  heat,  sympathy  for  Dave 
Mead,  and  the  sad  funeral  rites  in  the  morning,  together 
with  the  memory  of  Tillhurst's  gossip  and  the  long  time 
since  we  had  talked  with  each  other  alone,  had  been 
enough  to  check  even  her  sunny  spirit.  Gentle  Mrs. 
Whately,  willing  to  believe  everybody,  met  her  daughter 
with  a  sad  face. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  some  unwelcome  news  for  you,"  she 
said  when  Marjie  was  resting  in  the  cool  sitting-room 
after  the  hot  ride.  "  There  's  an  old  sweetheart  of  Phil's 
came  here  last  evening  to  visit  him.  Mr.  Dever,  the 
stage-driver,  says  she  is  the  handsomest  girl  he  ever  saw. 
They  say  she  and  Phil  were  engaged  and  had  a  falling 
out  back  East.  They  met  again  in  Topeka,  and  Phil 

221 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

stayed  a  day  or  two  to  visit  with  her  after  the  political 
meeting  was  over.  And  now  she  has  come  down  here  at 
his  request  to  meet  his  folks.  Marjie,  daughter,  you 
need  not  care.  There  are  more  worthy  men  who  would 
be  proud  to  marry  you." 

Marjie  made  no  reply. 

"  Oh,  daughter,  he  is  n't  worth  your  grief.  Be  strong. 
Your  life  will  get  into  better  channels  now.  There  are 
those  who  care  for  you  more  than  you  dream  of.  And 
you  cannot  care  for  Phil  when  I  tell  you  all  I  must  tell." 

"I  will  be  strong,  mother.  What  else?"  Marjie  said 
quietly.  In  the  shadows  of  the  room  darkened  to  keep 
out  the  noonday  heat,  Mrs.  Whately  did  not  note  the 
white  face  and  the  big  brown  eyes  burning  with  pain. 

"  It 's  too  bad,  but  you  ought  to  know  it.  Judge  Baro- 
net 's  got  some  kind  of  a  land  case  on  hand.  There  's  a 
fine  half-section  he  's  trying  to  get  away  from  a  young 
man  who  is  poor.  The  Judge  is  a  clever  lawyer  and  he 
is  a  rich  man.  Mr.  Judson  says  Tell  Mapleson  is  this 
young  man's  counsel,  and  he  's  fighting  to  keep  the  land 
for  its  real  owner.  Well,  Phil  was  strolling  around  until 
nearly  morning  with  Lettie  Conlow,  and  they  met  this 
young  man  somewhere.  He  does  n't  live  about  here. 
And,  Marjie,  right  before  Lettie,  Phil  gave  him  an  awful 
beating  and  made  him  promise  never  to  show  himself  in 
Springvale  again.  You  know  Judge  Baronet  could  do 
anything  in  that  court-room  he  wants  to.  He  is  a  fine 
man.  How  your  father  loved  him!  But  Phil  goes  out 
and  does  the  dirty  work  to  help  him  win.  So  Amos 
Judson  says." 

"Did  Amos  Judson  tell  you  all  this,  Mother?"  Marjie 
asked  faintly. 

"  Most  of  it.  And  he  is  so  interested  in  your  welfare, 
daughter." 

222 


ROCKPORT    AND     "ROCKPORT' 

Marjie  rose  to  her  feet.  "  Mother,  I  don't  know  how 
much  truth  there  may  be  in  the  circumstances,  but  I  '11 
wait  until  somebody  besides  Amos  Judson  tells  me  be- 
fore I  accept  these  stories." 

"  Well,  Marjie,  you  are  young.  You  must  lean  on 
older  counsel.  There  is  no  man  living  as  good  and  true 
as  your  father  was  to  me.  Remember  that." 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  Marjie  declared. 

"Who  is  he,  daughter?" 

"  Philip  Baronet,"  Marjie  answered  proudly. 

That  afternoon  Richard  Tillhurst  called  and  detained 
Marjie  until  she  was  late  in  keeping  her  appointment  with 
Judge  Baronet.  Tillhurst's  tale  of  woe  was  in  the  main 
a  repetition  of  Mrs.  Whately's,  but  he  knew  better  how 
to  make  it  convincing,  for  he  had  hopes  of  winning  the 
prize  if  I  were  out  of  the  way.  He  was  too  keen  to 
think  Judson  a  dangerous  rival  with  a  girl  of  Marjie's 
good  sense  and  independence.  It  was  with  these  things 
in  mind  that  Marjie  had  met  me.  Rachel  Melrose  had 
swept  in  on  us,  and  I  who  had  declared  to  my  dear  one 
that  I  should  never  care  to  take  another  girl  out  to  that 
sunny  draw  full  of  hallowed  memories  for  us  two,  I  was 
going  again  with  this  beautiful  woman,  my  sweetheart 
from  the  East.  And  yet  Marjie  was  quick  enough  to  note 
that  I  had  tried  to  evade  the  company  of  Miss  Melrose, 
and  she  had  seen  in  my  eyes  the  same  look  that  they  had 
had  for  her  all  these  years.  Could  I  be  deceiving  her  by 
putting  Rachel  off  in  her  presence?  She  did  not  want  to 
think  so.  Had  Judge  Baronet  not  been  my  father,  he 
could  have  taken  her  into  his  confidence.  She  could  not 
speak  to  him  of  me,  nor  could  he  discuss  his  son's  actions 
with  her. 

But  love  is  strong  and  patient,  and  Marjie  determined 
not  to  give  up  at  the  first  onslaught  against  it. 

223 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  I  '11  write  to  him  now,"  she  said.  "  There  will  be 
sure  to  be  a  letter  for  me  up  under  '  Rockport.'  He  said 
something  about  a  letter  this  afternoon,  the  letter  he 
promised  to  write  after  the  party  at  Anderson's.  He 
could  n't  be  deceiving  me,  I  'm  sure.  I  '11  tell  him  every- 
thing, and  if  he  really  does  n't  care  for  me," —  the  blank 
of  life  lay  sullen  and  dull  before  her, — "  I  '11  know  it  any 
how.  But  if  he  does  care,  he  '11  have  a  letter  for  me  all 
right." 

And  so  she  wrote,  a  loving,  womanly  letter,  telling  in 
her  own  sweet  way  all  her  faith  and  the  ugly  uncertainty 
that  was  growing  up  against  it. 

"  But  I  know  you,  Phil,  and  I  know  you  are  all  my 
own."  So  she  ended  the  letter,  and  in  the  purple  twi- 
light she  hastened  up  to  the  cliff  and  found  her  way  down 
to  our  old  shaded  corner  under  the  rock.  There  was  no 
letter  awaiting  her.  She  held  her  own  a  minute  and  then 
she  thrust  it  in. 

"  I  '11  do  anything  for  Phil,"  she  murmured  softly.  "  I 
cannot  help  it.  He  was  my  own  —  he  must  be  mine 
still." 

A  light  laugh  sounded  on  the  rock  above  her. 

"Are  you  waiting  for  me  here?"  a  musical  voice  cried 
out.  It  was  Rachel's  voice.  "  Your  aunt  said  you  were 
gone  out  and  would  be  back  soon.  I  knew  you  would 
like  me  to  meet  you  half  way.  It  is  beautiful  here,  you 
must  love  the  place,  but " —  she  added  so  softly  that  the 
unwilling  listener  did  not  catch  her  words  — "  it  is  n't 
so  fine  as  our  old  Rockport ! " 

Quickly  came  the  reply  in  a  voice  Marjie  knew  too 
well,  although  the  tone  was  unlike  any  she  had  ever  heard 
before. 

"  I  hate  Rockport ;  I  did  not  tell  you  so  when  I  left 
last  Spring,  but  I  hated  it  then." 

224 


ROCKPORT    AND     "ROCKPORT' 

Swiftly  across  the  listener's  mind  swept  the  memory 
of  my  words.  "  If  you  ever  hear  me  say  I  don't  like 
'  Rockport '  you  will  know  I  don't  care  for  you." 

She  had  heard  me  say  these  words,  had  heard  them 
spoken  in  a  tone  of  vehement  feeling.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  speaker's  sincerity,  and  then  the  quick 
step  and  swing  of  the  bushes  told  her  I  had  gone.  The 
Neosho  Valley  turned  black  before  her  eyes,  and  she 
sank  down  on  the  stone  shelving  of  the  ledge. 

My  ride  that  afternoon  had  been  a  miserable  one. 
Rachel  was  coy  and  sweet,  yet  cunningly  bold.  I  felt  in- 
dignant at  my  father  for  forcing  her  company  on  me,  and  I 
resented  the  circumstance  that  made  me  a  victim  to  injus- 
tice. I  detested  the  beautiful  creature  beside  me  for  her 
assumption  of  authority  over  my  actions,  and  above  all, 
I  longed  with  an  aching,  starved  heart  for  Marjie.  I 
knew  she  had  only  to  read  my  letter  to  understand.  She 
might  not  have  gone  after  it  yet,  but  I  could  see  her 
that  evening  and  all  would  be  well. 

I  did  not  go  near  the  old  stone  cabin.  My  father  had 
failed  to  know  his  son  if  he  thought  I  would  obey  under 
these  hard  conditions.  We  merely  drove  about  beyond 
the  draw.  Then  we  rested  briefly  under  the  old  cotton- 
wood  before  we  started  home. 

In  the  twilight  I  hurried  out  to  our  "  Rockport "  to 
wait  for  Marjie.  I  was  a  little  late  and  so  I  did  not 
know  that  Marjie  was  then  under  the  point  of  rock. 
My  rudeness  to  Rachel  was  unpardonable,  but  she  had 
intruded  one  step  too  far  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  my 
life.  I  would  not  endure  her  in  the  place  made  dear  to 
me  from  childhood,  by  association  with  Marjie.  So  I 
rashly  blurted  out  my  feelings  and  left  her,  never  dream- 
ing who  had  heard  me  nor  what  meaning  my  words  would 
carry. 

15  225 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

Down  at  the  Whately  home  Richard  Tillhurst  sat, 
bland  and  smiling,  waiting  for  Miss  Whately's  return. 
I  sat  down  to  wait  also. 

The  August  evening  was  dry  and  the  day's  hot  air 
was  rippling  now  into  a  slight  breeze.  The  shadows 
deepened  and  the  twilight  had  caught  its  last  faint  glow, 
when  Marjie,  white  and  cold,  came  slowly  up  the  walk. 
Her  brown  hair  lay  in  little  curls  about  her  temples  and 
her  big  dark  eyes  were  full  of  an  utterable  sorrow.  I 
hurried  out  to  the  gate  to  meet  her,  but  she  would  have 
passed  by  me  with  stately  step. 

"  Marjie,"  I  called  softly,  holding  the  gate. 

"  Good-evening,  Philip.  Please  don't  speak  to  me  one 
word."  Her  voice  was  low  and  sweet  as  of  yore  save 
that  it  was  cold  and  cutting. 

She  stood  beside  me  for  a  moment.  "  I  cannot  be  de- 
tained now.  You  will  find  your  mother's  ring  in  a  pack- 
age of  letters  I  shall  send  you  to-morrow.  For  my  sake 
as  well  as  for  your  own,  please  let  this  matter  end  here 
without  any  questions." 

"  But  I  will  ask  you  questions,"  I  declared. 

"  Then  they  will  not  be  answered.  You  have  deceived 
me  and  been  untrue  to  me.  I  will  not  listen  to  one 
word.  You  may  be  very  clever,  but  I  understand  you 
now.  This  is  the  end  of  everything  for  you  and  me." 
And  so  she  left  me. 

I  stood  at  the  gate  only  long  enough  to  hear  her  cordial 
greeting  of  Tillhurst.  My  Marjie,  my  own,  had  turned 
against  me.  The  shadows  of  the  deepening  twilight 
turned  to  horrid  shapes,  and  all  the  purple  richness  with 
that  deep  crimson  fold  low  in  the  western  sky  became 
a  chill  gloom  bordered  on  the  horizon  by  the  flame  of 
hate.  So  the  glory  of  a  world  gone  wrong  slips  away, 

226 


ROCKPORT    AND     "ROCKPORT' 

and  the  creeping  shadows  are  typical  only  of  pain  and 
heartache. 

I  turned  aimlessly  away.  I  had  told  Marjie  she  was 
the  light  of  my  life:  I  did  not  understand  the  truth  of 
the  words  until  the  light  went  out.  Heavily,  as  I  had 
staggered  toward  her  mother's  house  on  the  night  when 
I  was  sure  Jean  Pahusca  had  stolen  her,  I  took  my  way 
now  into  the  gathering  shadows,  slowly,  to  where  I  could 
hear  the  Neosho  whispering  and  muttering  in  the  deep 
gloom. 

It  comes  sometimes  to  most  of  us,  the  wild  notion  that 
life,  the  gift  of  God  alone,  is  a  cheap  thing  not  worth 
the  keeping,  and  the  impulse  to  fling  it  away  uprears 
its  ugly  suggestion.  Out  in  a  square  of  light  by  the 
ford  I  saw  Dave  Mead  standing,  looking  straight  before 
him.  The  sorrows  of  the  day  were  not  all  mine.  I  went 
to  him,  and  we  stood  there  silent  together.  At  length 
we  turned  about  in  a  purposeless  way  toward  the  open 
West  Prairie.  How  many  a  summer  evening  we  had 
wandered  here!  How  often  had  our  ponies  come  tramp- 
ing home  side  by  side,  in  the  days  when  we  brought 
the  cows  in  late  from  the  farthest  draw!  It  seemed  like 
another  world  now. 

"  Phil,  you  are  very  good  to  me.  Don't  pity  me !  I 
can't  stand  that."  We  never  had  a  tenor  in  our  choir 
with  a  voice  so  clear  and  rich  as  his. 

"  I  don't  pity  you,  Dave,  I  envy  you."  I  spoke  with 
an  effort.  "  You  have  not  lost,  you  have  only  begun 
a  long  journey.  There  is  joy  at  the  end  of  it." 

"  Oh,  that  is  easy  for  you  to  say,  who  have  everything 
to  make  you  happy." 

"  I  ?  Oh,  Dave !  I  have  not  even  a  grave."  The  sud- 
den sense  of  loss,  driven  back  by  the  thought  of  another's 

227 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

sorrow,  swept  over  me  again.  It  was  his  turn  now  to 
forget  himself. 

"What  is  it,  Phil?  Have  you  and  Marjie  quarrelled? 
You  never  were  meant  for  that,  either  of  you.  It  can't 
be." 

"  No,  Dave.  I  don't  know  what  is  wrong.  I  only 
wish  —  no,  I  don't.  It  is  hard  to  be  a  man  with  the 
heart  of  a  boy  still,  a  foolish  boy  with  foolish  ideals  of 
love  and  constancy.  I  can't  talk  to-night,  Dave,  only 
I  envy  you  the  sure  possession,  the  eternal  faith  that  will 
never  be  lost." 

He  pressed  my  hand  in  his  left  hand.  His  right  arm 
had  had  only  a  limited  usefulness  since  the  night  he  tried 
to  stop  Jean  Pahusca  down  by  the  mad  floods  of  the 
Neosho.  I  have  never  seen  him  since  we  parted  on  the 
prairie  that  August  evening.  The  next  day  he  went  to 
Red  Range  to  stay  for  a  short  time.  By  the  end  of  a 
week  I  had  left  Springvale,  and  we  are  to  each  other 
only  boyhood  memories  now. 

Out  on  the  open  prairie,  where  there  was  room  to 
think,  and  be  alone  I  went  to  fight  my  battle.  There 
was  only  a  sweep  of  silver  sky  above  me  and  a  sweep 
of  moonlit  plain  about  me.  Dim  to  the  southwest  crept 
the  dark  shadow  of  the  wooded  Fingal's  Creek  Valley, 
while  against  the  horizon  the  big  cottonwood  tree  was 
only  a  gray  blur.  The  mind  can  act  swiftly.  By  the 
time  the  moon  had  swung  over  the  midnight  line  I  had 
mapped  out  my  course.  And  while  I  seemed  to  have 
died,  and  another  being  had  my  personality,  with  only 
memory  the  same  in  both,  I  rose  up  armed  in  spirit  to  do  a 
man's  work  in  the  world.  But  it  cost  me  a  price.  I 
have  been  on  a  battle  field  with  a  thousand  against  fifty, 
and  I  was  one  of  the  fifty.  Such  a  strife  as  I  pray 
Heaven  may  never  be  in  our  land  again.  I  have  looked 

228 


ROCKPORT    AND     "ROCKPORT' 

Death  in  the  face  day  after  day  creeping  slowly,  surely 
toward  me  while  I  must  march  forward  to  meet  it.  Did 
the  struggle  this  night  out  on  the  prairie  strengthen  my 
soul  to  bear  it  all,  I  wonder. 

The  next  morning  a  package  addressed  in  Marjie's 
round  girlish  hand  was  put  before  me.  Forgetful  of 
resolve,  I  sent  back  by  its  bearer  an  imploring  appeal 
for  a  chance  to  meet  her  and  clear  up  the  terrible  mis- 
understanding. The  note  came  back  unopened.  I  gave 
it  with  the  bundle  to  Aunt  Candace. 

"  Keep  this  for  me,  auntie,  dear,"  I  said,  and  my  voice 
trembled.  She  took  it  from  my  hand. 

"  All  right,  Phil,  I  '11  keep  it.  You  are  not  at  the  end 
of  things,  dearie.  You  are  only  at  the  beginning.  I  '11 
keep  this.  It  is  only  keeping,  remember."  She  pointed 
to  a  stain  on  the  unopened  note,  the  round  little  blot 
only  a  tear  can  make.  "  It  is  n't  yours,  I  know." 

It  was  the  first  touch  of  comfort  I  had  felt.  However 
slender  the  thread,  Hope  will  find  it  strong  to  cling  to. 
Rachel's  visit  ended  that  day.  Self-centred  always,  she 
treated  me  as  one  who  had  been  foolish,  but  whom  she 
considered  her  admirer  still.  It  was  not  in  her  nature 
to  be  rejected.  She  shaped  things  to  fit  her  vanity,  and 
forgot  what  could  not  be  controlled.  I  refused  to  allow 
myself  to  be  alone  with  her  again.  Nobody  was  ever 
so  tied  to  a  woman's  presence  as  I  kept  myself  by  Aunt 
Candace  so  long  as  I  remained  in  the  house. 

My  father,  I  knew,  was  grieved  and  indignant.  With 
all  my  fair  promises  and  pretended  loyalty  I  seemed  to 
be  an  idle  trifler.  How  could  my  relation  to  Lettie  Con- 
low  be  explained  away  in  the  light  of  this  visit  from  a 
handsome  cultured  young  lady,  who  had  had  an  assur- 
ance of  welcome  or  she  would  not  have  come.  He  loved 
Marjie  as  the  daughter  of  his  dearest  friend.  He  had 

229 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

longed  to  call  her,  "  daughter,"  and  I  had  foolishly  thrown 
away  a  precious  prize. 

Serious,  too,  was  my  reckless  neglect  of  business.  I 
had  disregarded  his  request  to  manage  a  grave  matter. 
Instead  of  going  alone  to  the  cabin,  I  had  gone  off  with 
a  pretty  girl  and  reported  that  I  had  found  nothing. 

"Did  you  go  near  the  cabin?"  He  drove  the  ques- 
tion square  at  me,  and  I  had  sullenly  answered,  "  No, 
sir."  Clearly  I  needed  more  discipline  than  the  easy 
life  in  Springvale  was  giving  me.  I  went  down  to  the 
office  in  the  afternoon,  hoping  for  something,  I  hardly 
knew  what.  He  was  alone,  and  I  asked  for  a  few  words 
with  him.  Somehow  I  seemed  more  of  a  man  to  myself 
than  I  had  ever  felt  before  in  his  presence. 

"  Father,"  I  began.  "  When  the  sea  did  its  worst  for 
you  —  fifteen  years  ago  —  you  came  to  the  frontier  here, 
and  somehow  you  found  peace.  You  have  done  your 
part  in  the  making  of  the  lawless  Territory  into  a  law- 
abiding  State,  this  portion  of  it  at  least.  The  frontier 
moves  westward  rapidly  now." 

"Well?"  he  queried. 

"  I  have  lost  —  not  by  the  sea  —  but,  well,  I  Ve  lost. 
I  want  to  go  to  the  frontier  too.  I  must  get  away  from 
here.  The  Plains  —  somewhere  —  may  help  me." 

"  But  why  leave  here?  "  he  asked.  After  all,  the  father- 
heart  was  yearning  to  keep  his  son. 

"Why  did  you  leave  Massachusetts?"  I  could  not 
say  Rockport.  I  hated  the  sound  of  the  name. 

"Where  will  you  go,  my  boy?"  He  spoke  with  deep- 
est sorrow,  and  love  mingled  in  his  tones. 

"  Out  to  the  Saline  Country.  They  need  strong  men 
out  there.  I  must  have  been  made  to  defend  the  weak." 
It  was  not  a  boast,  but  the  frank  expression  of  my  young 
manhood's  ideal.  "  Your  friend  Mr.  Morton  urged  me  to 

230 


ROCKPORT    AND     "ROCKPORT" 

come.  May  I  go  to  him?  It  may  be  I  can  find  my  place 
out  in  that  treeless  open  land;  that  there  will  come  to 
me,  as  it  came  to  you,  the  help  that  comes  from  helping 
others." 

Oh,  I  had  fought  my  battle  well.  I  was  come  into 
a  man's  estate  now  and  had  put  away  childish  things. 

My  father  sitting  before  me  took  both  my  hands  in 
his. 

"  My  son,  you  are  all  I  have.  You  cannot  long  de- 
ceive me.  I  have  trusted  you  always.  I  love  you  even 
unto  the  depths  of  disgrace.  Tell  me  truly,  have  you 
done  wrong?  I  will  soon  know  it.  Tell  me  now." 

"  Father,"  I  held  his  hands  and  looked  steadily  into 
his  eyes.  "  I  have  no  act  to  conceal  from  you,  nor  any 
other  living  soul.  I  must  leave  here  because  I  cannot 
stay  and  see  —  Father,  Marjie  is  lost  to  me.  I  do  not 
know  why." 

"  Well,  find  out."     He  spoke  cheerily. 

"  It  is  no  use.  She  has  changed,  and  you  know  her 
father's  firmness.  She  is  his  mental  image." 

"  There  is  no  stain  somewhere,  no  folly  of  idle  flirta- 
tion, no  weakness?  I  hear  much  of  you  and  Lettie." 

"  Father,  I  have  done  nothing  to  make  me  ashamed. 
Last  night  when  I  fought  my  battle  to  the  finish,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  knew  my  mother  was  with  me. 
Somehow  it  was  her  will  guiding  me.  I  know  my  place. 
I  cannot  stay  here.  I  will  go  where  the  unprotected 
need  a  strength  like  mine." 

The  stage  had  stopped  at  the  courthouse  door,  and 
Rachel  Melrose  ran  up  the  steps  and  entered  the  outer 
office.  My  father  went  out  to  meet  her. 

"Are  you  leaving  us?"  he  asked  kindly. 

"  Yes,  I  had  only  a  day  or  two  that  I  could  spend  here. 
But  where  is  Philip?" 

231 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

John  Baronet  had  closed  his  door  behind  him.  I 
thanked  him  fervently  in  my  heart  for  his  protection. 
How  could  I  meet  this  woman  now?  And  yet  she  had 
seemed  only  selfishly  mischievous,  and  I  must  not  be 
a  coward,  so  I  came  out  of  the  inner  room  at  once.  A 
change  swept  over  her  face  when  I  appeared.  The 
haughty  careless  spirit  gave  place  to  gentleness,  and, 
as  always,  she  was  very  pretty.  Nothing  of  the  look 
or  manner  was  lost  on  John  Baronet,  and  his  pity  for  her 
only  strengthened  his  opinion  of  my  insincerity. 

"  Good-bye,  Philip.  We  shall  meet  again  soon,  I  hope. 
Good-bye,  Judge  Baronet."  Her  voice  was  soft  and 
full  of  sadness.  She  smiled  upon  us  both  and  turned 
to  go. 

My  father  led  her  down  the  courthouse  steps  and 
helped  her  into  the  stage.  When  he  came  back  I  did 
not  look  up.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to  say.  Quietly, 
as  though  nothing  had  occurred,  he  took  up  his  work, 
his  face  as  impenetrable  as  Jean  Pahusca's. 

My  resemblance  to  my  mother  is  strong.  As  I  bent 
over  his  desk  to  gather  up  some  papers  for  copying, 
my  heavy  dark  hair  almost  brushed  his  cheek.  I  did 
not  know  then  how  his  love  for  me  was  struggling  with 
his  sense  of  duty. 

"  I  have  trusted  him  too  much,  and  given  him  too  free 
a  rein.  He  does  n't  know  yet  how  to  value  a  woman's 
feelings.  He  must  learn  his  lesson  now.  But  he  shall 
not  go  away  without  my  blessing." 

So  he  mused. 

"  Philip,"  his  voice  was  as  kind  as  it  was  firm,  "  we 
shall  see  what  the  days  will  bring.  Your  mother's  spirit 
may  be  guiding  you,  and  your  father's  love  is  always 
with  you.  Whatever  snarls  and  tangles  have  gotten  into 
your  threads,  time  and  patience  will  straighten  and  un- 

232 


ROCKPORT     AND     "ROCKPORT' 

ravel.  Whatever  wrong  you  may  have  done,  willingly 
or  unwillingly,  you  must  make  right.  There  is  no  other 
way." 

"  Father,"  I  replied  in  a  voice  as  firm  as  his  own. 
"  Father,  I  have  done  no  wrong." 

Once  more  he  looked  steadily  into  my  eyes  and  through 
them  down  into  my  very  soul.  "  Phil,  I  believe  you. 
These  things  will  soon  pass  away." 

In  the  early  twilight  I  went  for  the  last  time  to  "  Rock- 
port."  There  are  sadder  things  than  funeral  rites.  The 
tragedies  of  life  do  not  always  ring  down  the  curtain 
leaving  the  stage  strewn  with  the  forms  of  the  slain. 
Oftener  they  find  the  living  actor  following  his  lines  and 
doing  his  part  of  the  play  as  if  all  life  were  a  comedy. 
The  man  of  sixty  years  may  smile  at  the  intensity  of 
feeling  in  the  boy  of  twenty-one,  but  that  makes  it  no 
easier  for  the  boy.  I  watched  the  sun  go  down  that 
night,  and  then  I  waited  through  the  dark  hour  till  the 
moon,  now  past  the  full,  should  once  more  illumine  the 
Neosho  Valley.  Although  I  have  always  been  a  lover  of 
nature,  that  sunset  and  the  purple  twilight  following, 
the  darkness  of  the  early  evening  hour  and  the  glorious 
moonrise  are  tinged  with  a  sorrow  I  have  never  quite 
lost  even  in  the  happier  years  since  then.  I  sat  alone 
on  the  point  of  rock.  At  last  the  impulse  to  go  down 
below  and  search  for  a  letter  from  Marjie  overcame  me, 
although  I  laughed  bitterly  at  the  folly  of  such  a  notion. 
In  the  crevice  where  her  letter  had  been  placed  for  me 
the  night  before,  I  found  nothing.  What  a  different 
story  I  might  have  to  tell  had  I  gone  down  at  sunset 
instead  of  waiting  through  that  hour  of  darkness  before 
the  moon  crept  above  the  eastern  horizon  line!  And 
yet  I  believe  that  in  the  final  shaping-up  the  best  thing 
for  each  one  comes  to  all  of  us.  Else  the  universe  is 

233 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

without  a  plan  and  Love  unwavering  and  eternal  is  only 
a  vagary  of  the  dreamer. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  left  Springvale,  and  set  my 
face  to  the  westward,  as  John  Baronet  had  done  a  decade 
and  a  half  before,  to  begin  life  anew  where  the  wilderness 
laps  the  frontier  line.  My  father  held  my  hand  long 
when  I  said  good-bye,  and  love  and  courage  and  trust 
were  all  in  that  hand-clasp. 

"  You  '11  win  out,  my  boy.  Keep  your  face  to  the  light. 
The  world  has  no  place  for  the  trifler,  the  coward,  or  the 
liar.  It  is  open  to  homestead  claims  for  all  the  rest. 
You  will  not  fail."  And  with  his  kiss  on  my  forehead 
he  let  me  go. 

Anything  is  news  in  a  little  town,  and  especially  in- 
teresting in  the  dull  days  of  late  Summer.  The  word 
that  I  had  gone  away  started  from  Conlow's  shop  and 
swept  through  the  town  like  a  prairie  fire  through  a  grassy 
draw. 

No  one  man  is  essential  to  any  community.  Spring- 
vale  didn't  need  me  so  much  as  I  needed  it.  But  when 
I  left  it  there  were  many  more  than  I  deserved  who  not 
only  had  a  good  word  for  me;  they  went  further,  and 
demanded  that  good  reason  for  my  going  must  be  shown, 
or  somebody  would  be  made  to  suffer.  Foremost  among 
these  were  Cam  Gentry,  Dr.  Hemingway,  and  Cris  Mead, 
president  of  the  Springvale  Bank,  the  father  of  Bill  and 
Dave.  Of  course,  the  boys,  the  blessed  old  gang,  who 
had  played  together  and  worked  together  and  been  glad 
and  sorry  with  each  other  down  the  years,  the  boys  were 
loyal  to  the  last  limit. 

But  we  had  our  share  of  gossips  who  had  a  tale  they 
could  unfold  —  a  dreadful  tale !  Beginning  with  my  forg- 
ing my  father's  name  to  get  money  to  spend  on  Rachel 

234 


POCKPORT    AND     "ROCKPORT" 

Melrose  and  other  Topeka  girls,  and  to  pay  debts  I  had 
contracted  at  Harvard,  on  and  on  the  tale  ran,  till,  by 
the  time  the  Fingal's  Creek  neighborhood  got  hold  of 
the  "  real  facts,"  it  developed  that  I  had  all  but  murdered 
a  man  who  stood  in  the  way  of  a  rich  fee  my  father  was 
to  get  out  of  a  land  suit  somewhere;  and  lastly  came 
an  ominous  shaking  of  the  head  and  a  keeping  back  of 
the  "  worst  truth,"  about  my  gay  escapades  with  girls 
of  shady  reputation  whom  I  had  deceived,  and  cruelly 
wronged,  trusting  to  my  standing  as  a  rich  man's  son  to 
pull  me  through  all  right. 

Marjie  was  the  last  one  in  Springvale  to  be  told  of 
my  sudden  leave-taking.  The  day  had  been  intolerably 
long  for  her,  and  the  evening  brought  an  irresistible 
temptation  to  go  up  to  our  old  playground.  Contrary 
to  his  daily  habit  my  father  had  passed  the  Whately 
house  on  his  way  home,  and  Marjie  had  seen  him  climb 
the  hill*  I  was  as  like  him  in  form  as  Jean  Pahusca  was 
like  Father  Le  Claire.  Six  feet  and  two  inches  he  stood, 
and  so  perfectly  proportioned  that  he  never  looked  cor- 
pulent. I  matched  him  in  height  and  weight,  but  I  had 
not  his  fine  bearing,  for  I  had  seen  no  military  service 
then.  I  do  not  marvel  that  Springvale  was  proud  of  him, 
for  his  character  matched  the  graces  Nature  had  given 
him. 

As  Marjie  watched  him  going  the  way  I  had  so  often 
taken,  her  resolve  to  forget  what  we  had  been  to  each 
other  suddenly  fell  to  pieces.  Her  feelings  could  not 
change  at  once.  Mental  habits  are  harder  to  break  up 
than  physical  appetites.  For  fourteen  years  my  loved 
one  had  known  me,  first  as  her  stanch  defender  in  our 
plays,  then  as  her  boy  sweetheart  and  lastly  as  her  lover 
and  betrothed  husband.  Could  twenty-four  hours  of  dis- 
trust and  misunderstanding  displace  these  fourteen  years 

235 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

of  happy  thinking?  And  so  after  sunset  Marjie  went 
up  the  slope,  hardly  knowing  why  she  should  do  so  or 
what  she  would  say  to  me  if  she  should  meet  me  there. 
It  was  a  poor  beginning  for  the  new  life  she  had  care- 
fully mapped  out,  but  impulse  was  stronger  than  resolve 
in  her  just  then.  Just  at  the  steep  bend  in  the  street 
she  came  face  to  face  with  Lettie  Conlow.  The  latter 
wore  a  grin  of  triumph  as  the  two  met. 

"  Good-evening,  Marjie.  I  s'pose  you  've  heard  the 
news?" 

"What  news?"  asked  Marjie.  "I  haven't  heard  any- 
thing new  to-day." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have,  too.  You  know  all  about  it ;  but 
I  'd  not  care  if  I  was  you." 

Marjie  was  on  her  guard  in  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  care  for  what  I  don't  know,  Lettie,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"  Nor  what  you  do,  neither.  I  would  n't  if  I  was  you. 
He  ain't  worth  it;  and  it  gives  better  folks  a  chance  for 
what  they  want,  anyhow." 

Lettie's  low  brows  and  cunning  black  eyes  were  un- 
endurable to  the  girl  she  was  tormenting. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  and 
Marjie  would  have  passed  on,  but  Lettie  intercepted 
her. 

"  You  know  that  rich  Melrose  girl 's  gone  back  to  To- 
peka?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Marjie  spoke  indifferently ;  "  she  went  last 
evening,  I  was  told." 

"  Well,  this  morning  Phil  Baronet  went  after  her,  left 
Springvale  for  good  and  all.  O'mie  says  so,  and  he  knows 
all  Phil  knows.  Marjie,  she  's  rich ;  and  Phil  won't  marry 
nobody  but  a  rich  girl.  You  know  you  ain't  got  what 
you  had  when  your  pa  was  alive." 

236 


ROCKPORT    AND    "ROCKPORT" 

Yes,  Marjie  knew  that. 

"  Well  he  's  gone  anyhow,  and  I  don't  care." 

"Why  should  you  care?"  Marjie  could  not  help  the 
retort.  She  was  stung  to  the  quick  in  every  nerve.  Let- 
tie's  face  blazed  with  anger. 

"Or  you?"  she  stormed.  "He  was  with  me  last.  I 
can  prove  it,  and  a  lot  more  things  you  'd  never  want  to 
hear.  But  you  '11  never  be  his  girl  again." 

Marjie  turned  toward  the  cliff  just  as  O'mie  appeared 
through  the  bushes  and  stepped  behind  Lettie. 

"  Oh,  good-evening,  lovely  ladies ;  delighted  to  meet 
you,"  he  hailed  them. 

Marjie  smiled  at  him,  but  Lettie  gave  a  sudden  start. 

"  Oh,  O'mie,  what  are  you  forever  tagging  me  for?  " 
She  spoke  angrily  and  without  another  word  to  Marjie 
she  hurried  down  the  hill. 

"  I  tag !  "  O'mie  grinned.  "  I  'd  as  soon  tag  Satan,  only 
I  Ve  just  got  to  do  it."  But  his  face  changed  when  he 
turned  to  Marjie.  "  Little  girl,  I  overheard  the  lady. 
Lovely  spirit  that!  I  just  can't  help  dancin'  attendance 
on  it.  But,  Marjie,  I  Ve  come  up  here,  knowin'  Phil  had 
gone  and  wasn't  in  my  way,  'cause  I  wanted  to  show 
you  somethin'.  Yes,  he  's  gone.  Left  early  this  mornin'. 
Never  mind  that,  right  now." 

He  led  the  way  through  the  bushes  and  they  sat  down 
together.  I  cannot  say  what  Marjie  thought  as  she  looked 
out  on  the  landscape  I  had  watched  in  loneliness  the  night 
before.  It  was  O'mie,  and  not  his  companion,  who  told 
me  long  afterwards  of  this  evening. 

"  I  thought  you  were  away  on  a  ten  days'  vacation, 
O'mie.  Dever  said  you  were."  She  could  not  bear  the 
silence. 

"  I  'm  on  a  tin  days'  vacation,  but  I  'm  not  away, 
Marjie,  darlin',"  O'mie  replied. 

237 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

"  Oh,  O'mie,  don't  joke.  I  can't  stand  it  to-night." 
Her  face  was  white  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  pain. 

"  Indade,  I  'm  not  jokin'.  I  came  up  here  to  show  you 
somethin'  and  to  tell  you  somethin'." 

He  took  an  old  note  book  from  his  pocket  and  opened 
it  to  where  a  few  brown  blossoms  lay  flatly  pressed  be- 
tween the  leaves. 

"  Thim  's  not  pretty  now,  Marjie,  but  the  day  I  got 
'em  they  was  dainty  an*  pink  as  the  dainty  pink-cheeked 
girl  whose  brown  curls  they  was  wreathed  about.  These 
are  the  flowers  Phil  Baronet  put  on  your  hair  out  in  the 
West  Draw  by  the  big  cottonwood  one  April  evenin' 
durin'  the  war;  the  flowers  Jean  Pahusca  kissed  an* 
throwed  away.  But  I  saved  'em  because  I  love  you, 
Marjie." 

She  shivered  and  bent  her  head. 

"  Oh,  not  like  thim  two  ornery  tramps  who  had  these 
blossoms  'fore  I  got  'em,  but  like  I  'd  love  a  sister,  if 
I  had  one;  like  Father  Le  Claire  loves  me.  D'  ye  see?  " 

"  You  are  a  dear,  good  brother,  O'mie,"  Marjie  mur- 
mured, without  lifting  her  head. 

"  Oh,  yis,  I  'm  all  av  that  an'  more.  Marjie,  I  'm  goin' 
to  kape  these  flowers  till  —  well,  now,  Marjie,  shall  I  tell 
you  whin?  " 

"  Yes,   O'mie,"  Marjie  said  faintly. 

"  Well,  till  I  see  the  pretty  white  veil  lifted  fur  friends 
to  kiss  the  bride  an'  I  catch  the  scent  av  orange  blossoms 
in  thim  soft  little  waves."  He  put  his  hand  gently  on 
her  bowed  head.  "  I  '11  get  to  do  it,  too,"  he  went  on, 
"  not  right  away,  but  not  fur  off,  nather ;  an'  it  won't  be 
a  little  man,  ner  a  rid-headed  Irishman,  ner  a  sharp-nosed 
school-teacher ;  but  —  Heaven  bless  an'  kape  him  to-night ! 
—  it  '11  be  a  big,  broad-shouldered,  handsome  rascal,  whose 
heart  has  niver  changed  an'  niver  can  change  toward 

238 


ROCKPORT     AND     "ROCKPORT' 

you,  little  sister,  'cause  he  's  his  father's  own  son  —  lovin', 
constant,  white  an'  clane  through  an'  through.  Be  pa- 
tient. It 's  goin'  to  be  all  right  for  you  two."  He  closed 
the  book  and  put  it  back  in  its  place.  "  But  I 
must  n't  stay  here.  I  've  got  to  tag  Lettie  some  more. 
Her  an'  some  others.  That 's  what  my  tin  days'  va- 
cation 's  fur,  mostly."  And  O'mie  leaped  through  the 
bushes  and  was  gone. 

The  twilight  was  deepening  when  Marjie  at  last  roused 
herself. 

"  I  '11  go  down  and  see  if  he  did  get  my  letter,"  she  mur- 
mured, taking  her  way  down  the  rough  stair.  There 
was  no  letter  in  the  crevice  where  she  had  placed  it 
securely  two  nights  before.  Lifting  her  face  upward  she 
clasped  her  hands  in  sorrow. 

"  He  took  it  away,  but  he  did  not  come  to  me.  He 
knows  I  love  him."  Then  remembering  herself,  "  I  would 
not  let  him  speak.  But  he  said  he  hated  *  Rockport.'  Oh, 
what  can  it  all  mean?  How  could  he  be  so  good  to  me 
and  then  deceive  me  so?  Shall  I  believe  Lettie,  or 
O'mie?" 

Kneeling  there  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  cliff-side  with 
the  Neosho  gurgling  darkly  below  her,  and  the  long 
shafts  of  pink  radiance  from  the  hidden  sunset  illu- 
mining the  sky  above  her,  Marjie  prayed  for  strength 
to  bear  her  burden,  for  courage  to  meet  whatever  must 
come  to  her,  and  for  the  assurance  of  divine  Love  al- 
though now  her  lover,  as  well  as  her  father,  was  lost  to 
her.  The  simple  pleading  cry  of  a  grief-stricken  heart 
it  was.  Heaven  heard  that  prayer,  and  Marjie  went 
down  the  hill  with  womanly  grace  and  courage  and  faith 
to  face  whatever  must  befall  her  in  the  new  life  opening 
before  her. 

In  the  days  that  followed  my  little  girl  was  more  than 

239 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

ever  the  idol  of  Springvale.  Her  sweet,  sunny  nature 
now  had  a  new  beauty.  Her  sorrow  she  hid  away  so 
completely  there  were  few  who  guessed  what  her  thoughts 
were.  Lettie  Conlow  was  not  deceived,  for  jealousy  has 
sharp  eyes.  O'mie  understood,  for  O'mie  had  carried  a 
sad,  hungry  heart  underneath  his  happy-go-lucky  care- 
lessness all  the  years  of  his  life.  Aunt  Candace  was  a 
woman  who  had  overcome  a  grief  of  her  own,  and  had 
been  cheery  and  bright  down  the  years.  She  knew  the 
mark  of  conquest  in  the  face.  And  lastly,  my  father, 
through  his  innate  power  to  read  human  nature,  watched 
Marjie  as  if  she  were  his  own  child.  Quietly,  too,  so 
quietly  that  nobody  noticed  it,  he  became  a  guardian 
over  her.  Where  she  went  and  what  she  did  he  knew 
as  well  as  Jean  Pahusca,  watching  in  the  lilac  clump, 
long  ago.  For  fourteen  years  he  had  come  and  gone  to 
our  house  on  Cliff  Street  up  and  down  the  gentler  slope 
two  blocks  to  the  west  of  Whately's.  Nobody  knew,  un- 
til it  had  become  habitual,  when  he  changed  his  daily 
walk  homeward  up  the  steeper  climb  that  led  him  by 
Marjie's  house  farther  down  the  street.  Nobody  realized, 
until  it  was  too  common  for  comment,  how  much  a  part 
of  all  the  social  life  of  Springvale  my  father  had  become. 
He  had  come  to  Kansas  a  widower,  but  gossip  long  ago 
gave  up  trying  to  do  anything  with  him.  And  now,  as 
always,  he  was  a  welcome  factor  everywhere,  a  genial, 
courteous  gentleman,  whose  dignity  of  character  matched 
his  stern  uprightness  and  courage  in  civic  matters. 
Among  all  the  things  for  which  I  bless  his  memory,  not 
the  least  of  them  was  this  strong,  unostentatious  guardi- 
anship of  a  girl  when  her  need  for  protection  was  greatest, 
as  that  Winter  that  followed  proved. 

I  knew  nothing  of  all  this  then.     I  only  knew  my  loved 
one   had   turned   against   me.     Of   course   I   knew   that 

240 


ROCKPORT    AND     "ROCKPORT' 

Rachel  was  the  cause,  but  I  could  not  understand  why 
Marjie  would  listen  to  no  explanation,  why  she  should 
turn  completely  from  me  when  I  had  told  her  everything 
in  the  letter  I  wrote  the  night  of  the  party  at  Anderson's. 
And  now  I  was  many  miles  from  Springvale,  and  the  very 
thought  of  the  past  was  like  a  knife-thrust.  All  my  future 
now  looked  to  the  Westward.  I  longed  for  action,  for 
the  opportunity  to  do  something,  and  they  came  swiftly, 
the  opportunity  and  the  action. 


16 


241 


CHAPTER    XVI 
BEGINNING    AGAIN 

It  matters  not  what  fruit  the  hand  may  gather, 
If  God  approves,  and  says,  "This  is  the  best." 

It  matters  not  how  far  the  feet  may  wander, 
If  He  says,  "  Go,  and  leave  to  Me  the  rest." 

—  ALBERT  MACT. 

I  STOOD  in  the  August  twilight  by  the  railway  station 
in  the  little  frontier  town  of  Salina,  where  the  Union 
Pacific  train  had  abandoned  me  to  my  fate.  Turning 
toward  the  unmapped,  limitless  Northwest,  I  suddenly 
realized  that  I  was  at  the  edge  of  the  earth  now.  Be- 
hind me  were  civilization  and  safety.  Beyond  me  was 
only  a  waste  of  gray  nothingness.  Yet  this  was  the  world 
I  had  come  hither  to  conquer.  Here  were  the  spaces 
wherein  I  should  find  peace.  I  set  my  face  with  grim 
determination  to  work  now,  out  of  the  thing  before  me, 
a  purpose  that  controlled  me. 

Morton's  claim  was  a  far  day's  journey  up  the  Saline 
Valley.  It  would  be  nearly  a  week  before  I  could  find 
a  man  to  drive  me  thither ;  so  I  secured  careful  Directions, 
and  the  next  morning  I  left  the  town  on  foot  and  alone. 
I  did  not  mind  the  labor  of  it.  I  was  as  vigorous  as  a 
young  giant,  fear  of  personal  peril  I  had  never  known, 
and  the  love  of  adventure  was  singing  its  siren's  song 
to  me.  I  was  clad  in  the  strong,  coarse  garments,  suited 
to  the  Plains.  I  was  armed  with  two  heavy  revolvers 

242 


BEGINNING    AGAIN 

and  a  small  pistol.  Hidden  inside  of  my  belt  as  a  last 
defence  was  the  short,  sharp  knife  bearing  Jean  Le 
Claire's  name  in  script  lettering. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  moment  when  a  low  bluff  be- 
yond a  bend  in  the  Saline  River  shut  off  the  distant  town 
from  my  view  and  I  stood  utterly  alone  in  a  wide,  silent 
world,  left  just  as  God  had  made  it.  Humility  and  uplift 
mingle  in  the  soul  in  such  a  time  and  place.  One  question 
ran  back  and  forth  across  my  mind:  What  conquering 
power  can  ever  bring  the  warmth  of  glad  welcome  to 
the  still,  hostile,  impenetrable  beauty  of  these  boundless 
plains? 

"  The  air  is  full  of  spirits  out  here,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"  There  is  no  living  thing  in  sight,  and  yet  the  land  seems 
inhabited,  just  as  that  old  haunted  cabin  down  on  the 
Neosho  seemed  last  June." 

And  then  with  the  thought  of  that  June  day  Memory 
began  to  play  her  tricks  on  me  and  I  cried  out,  "  Oh, 
perdition  take  that  stone  cabin  and  the  whole  Neosho 
Valley  if  that  will  make  me  forget  it  all ! " 

I  strode  forward  along  the  silent,  sunshiny  way,  with 
a  thousand  things  on  my  mind's  surface  and  only  one 
thought  in  its  inner  deeps.  The  sun  swung  up  the  sky, 
and  the  thin  August  air  even  in  its  heat  was  light  and 
invigorating.  The  river  banks  were  low  and  soft  where 
the  stream  cuts  through  the  alluvial  soil  a  channel  many 
feet  below  the  level  of  the  Plains.  The  day  was  long,  but 
full  of  interest  to  me,  who  took  its. sight  as  a  child  takes 
a  new  picture-book,  albeit  a  certain  sense  of  peril  lurked 
in  the  shadowing  corners  of  my  thought. 

The  August  sun  was  low  in  the  west  when  I  climbed 
up  the  grassy  slope  to  Morton's  little  square  stone  cabin. 
It  stood  on  a  bold  height  overlooking  the  Saline  River. 
Far  away  in  every  direction  the  land  billows  lay  fold  on 

243 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

fold.  Treeless  and  wide  they  stretched  out  to  the  horizon, 
with  here  and  there  a  low  elevation,  and  here  and  there 
the  faint  black  markings  of  scrubby  bushes  clinging  to 
the  bank  of  a  stream.  The  stream  itself,  now  only  a 
shallow  spread  of  water,  bore  witness  to  the  fierce  thirst 
of  the  summer  sun.  Up  and  down  the  Saline  Valley  only 
a  few  scattered  homesteads  were  to  be  seen,  and  a  few 
fields  of  slender,  stunted  corn  told  the  story  of  the  first 
struggle  for  conquest  in  a  beautiful  but  lonely  and  un- 
friendly land. 

Morton  was  standing  at  the  door  of  his  cabin  looking 
out  on  that  sweep  of  plains  with  thoughtful  eyes.  He 
did  not  see  me  until  I  was  fairly  up  the  hill,  and  when 
he  did  he  made  no  motion  towards  me,  but  stood  and 
waited  for  my  coming.  In  those  few  moments  as  I  swung 
forward  leisurely  —  for  I  was  very  tired  now  —  I  think 
we  read  each  other's  character  and  formed  our  estimates 
more  accurately  than  many  men  have  done  after  years  of 
close  business  association. 

He  was  a  small  man  beside  me,  as  I  have  said,  and  his 
quiet  manner,  and  retiring  disposition,  half  dignity,  half 
modesty,  gave  the  casual  acquaintance  no  true  estimate 
of  his  innate  force.  Three  things,  however,  had  attracted 
me  to  him  in  our  brief  meeting  at  Topeka:  his  voice, 
though  low,  had  a  thrill  of  power  in  it ;  his  hand-clasp  was 
firm  and  full  of  meaning;  and  when  I  looked  into  his 
blue  eyes  I  recalled  the  words  which  the  Earl  of  Kent 
said  to  King  Lear: 

"  You  have  that  in  your  countenance  which  I  would 
fain  call  master." 

And  when  King  Lear  asked,  "What's  that?"  Kent 
replied,  "  Authority." 

It  was  in  Morton's  face.  Although  he  was  not  more 
than  a  dozen  years  my  senior,  I  instinctively  looked 

244 


Every  movement  of  ours  had  been  watched  by  Indian  scouts 


BEGINNING    AGAIN 

upon  him  as  a  leader  of  men,  and  he  became  then  and  has 
always  since  been  one  of  my  manhood's  ideals. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  Baronet.  Come  in."  He  grasped 
my  hand  firmly  and  led  the  way  into  the  house.  I  sat 
down  wearily  in  the  chair  he  offered  me.  It  was  well  that 
I  had  walked  the  last  stage  of  my  journey.  Had  I  been 
twenty-four  hours  later  I  should  have  missed  him,  and 
this  one  story  of  the  West  might  never  have  been  told. 

The  inside  of  the  cabin  was  what  one  would  expect 
to  find  in  a  Plainsman's  home  who  had  no  one  but  him- 
self to  consider. 

While  I  rested  he  prepared  our  supper.  Disappoint- 
ment in  love  does  not  always  show  itself  in  the  appetite, 
and  I  was  as  hungry  as  a  coyote.  All  day  new  sights 
and  experiences  had  been  crowding  in  upon  me.  The 
exhilaration  of  the  wild  Plains  was  beginning  to  pulse 
in  my  veins.  I  had  come  into  a  strange,  untried  world. 
The  past,  with  its  broken  ties  and  its  pain  and  loss,  must 
be  only  a  memory  that  at  my  leisure  I  might  call  back; 
but  here  was  a  different  life,  under  new  skies,  with  new 
people.  The  sunset  lights,  the  gray  evening  shadows, 
and  the  dip  and  swell  of  the  purple  distances  brought 
their  heartache;  but  now  I  was  hungry,  and  Morton  was 
making  johnny  cakes  and  frying  bacon;  wild  plums  were 
simmering  on  the  fire,  and  coffee  was  filling  the  room 
with  the  rarest  of  all  good  odors  vouchsafed  to  mortal 
sense. 

At  the  supper  table  my  host  went  directly  to  my  case 
by  asking,  "  Have  you  come  out  here  to  prospect  or  to 
take  hold?" 

"  To  take  hold,"  I  answered. 

"Are  you  tired  after  your  journey?"  he  queried. 

"I?  No.  A  night's  sleep  will  fix  me."  I  looked 
down  at  my  strong  arms,  and  stalwart  limbs. 

245 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"You  sleep  well?"     His  questions  were  brief. 

"  I  never  missed  but  one  night  in  twenty-one  years,  ex- 
cept when  I  sat  up  with  a  sick  boy  one  Summer,"  I  re- 
plied. 

"  When  was  that  one  night?  " 

"  Oh,  during  the  war  when  the  border  ruffians  and 
Copperheads  terrorized  our  town." 

"  You  are  like  your  father,  I  see."  He  did  not  say 
in  what  particular ;  and  I  added,  "  I  hope  I  am." 

We  finished  the  meal  in  silence.  Then  we  sat  down 
by  the  west  doorway  and  saw  the  whole  Saline  Valley 
shimmer  through  the  soft  glow  of  twilight  and  lose  itself 
at  length  in  the  darkness  that  folded  down  about  it.  A 
gentle  breeze  swept  along  from  somewhere  in  the  far 
southwest,  a  thousand  insects  chirped  in  the  grasses. 
Down  by  the  river  a  few  faint  sounds  of  night  birds 
could  be  heard,  and  then  loneliness  and  homesickness 
had  their  time,  denied  during  every  other  hour  of  the 
twenty-four. 

After  a  time  my  host  turned  toward  me  in  the  gloom 
and  looked  steadily  into  my  eyes. 

"  He 's  taking  my  measure,"  I  thought. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "will  I  do?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Your  father  told  me  once  in  the 
army  that  his  boy  could  ride  like  a  Comanche,  and  turn 
his  back  to  a  mark  and  hit  it  over  his  shoulder."  He 
smiled. 

"  That 's  because  one  evening  I  shot  the  head  off  a 
scarecrow  he  had  put  up  in  the  cherry  tree  when  I  was 
hiding  around  a  corner  to  keep  out  of  his  sight.  All  the 
Springvale  boys  learned  how  to  ride  and  shoot  and  to 
do  both  at  once,  although  we  never  had  any  shooting 
to  do  that  really  counted." 

"  Baronet " —  there  was  a  tone  in  Morton's  voice  that 

246 


BEGINNING    AGAIN 

gripped  and  held  me  —  "you  have  come  here  in  a  good 
time.  We  need  you  now.  Men  of  your  build  and  en- 
durance and  skill  are  what  this  West 's  got  to  have." 

"  Well,  I  'm  here,"  I  answered  seriously. 

"  I  shall  leave  for  Fort  Harker  to-morrow  with  a  crowd 
of  men  from  the  valley  to  join  a  company  Sheridan  has 
called  for,"  he  went  on.  "  You  know  about  the  Indian 
raid  the  first  of  this  month.  The  Cheyennes  came  across 
here,  and  up  on  Spillman  Creek  and  over  on  the  Solomon 
they  killed  a  dozen  or  more  people.  They  burned  every 
farm-house,  and  outraged  every  woman,  and  butchered 
every  man  and  child  they  could  lay  hands  on.  You 
heard  about  it  at  Topeka." 

"Hasn't  that  Indian  massacre  been  avenged  yet?"  I 
cried. 

Clearly  in  my  memory  came  the  two  women  of  my 
dream  of  long  ago.  How  deeply  that  dream  had  im- 
pressed itself  upon  my  mind!  And  then  there  flashed 
across  my  brain  the  image  of  Marjie,  as  she  looked  the 
night  when  she  stood  in  the  doorway  with  the  lamplight 
on  her  brown  curls,  and  it  became  clear  to  me  that  she 
was  safe  at  home.  Oh,  the  joy  of  that  moment!  The 
unutterable  thankfulness  that  filled  my  soul  was  matched 
in  intensity  only  by  the  horror  that  fills  it  even  now 
when  I  think  of  a  white  woman  in  Indian  slave-bonds. 
And  while  I  was  thinking  of  this  I  was  listening  to 
Morton's  more  minute  account  of  what  had  been  taking 
place  about  him,  and  why  he  and  his  neighbors  were  to 
start  on  the  next  day  for  Fort  Harker  down  on  the  Smoky 
Hill  River. 

Early  in  that  memorable  August  of  1868  a  band  of 
forty  Cheyenne  braves,  under  their  chief  Black  Kettle, 
came  riding  up  from  their  far-away  villages  in  the  south- 
west, bent  on  a  merciless  murdering  raid  upon  the  un- 

247 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

guarded  frontier  settlements.  They  were  a  dirty,  ragged, 
sullen  crew  as  ever  rode  out  of  the  wilderness.  Down 
on  the  Washita  River  their  own  squaws  and  papooses 
were  safe  in  their  tepees  too  far  from  civilization  for  any 
retaliatory  measure  to  reach  them. 

When  Black  Kettle's  band  came  to  Fort  Hays,  after 
the  Indian  custom  they  made  the  claim  of  being  "  good 
Indians." 

"  Black  Kettle  loves  his  white  soldier  brothers,  and  his 
heart  feels  glad  when  he  meets  them,"  the  Chief  de- 
clared. "  We  would  be  like  white  soldiers,  but  we  can- 
not, for  we  are  Indians;  but  we  can  all  be  brothers. 
It  is  a  long  way  that  we  have  come  to  see  you.  Six 
moons  have  come  and  gone,  and  there  has  been  no  rain; 
the  wind  blows  hot  from  the  south  all  day  and  all  night; 
the  ground  is  hot  and  cracked ;  the  grass  is  burned  up ;  the 
buffalo  wallows  are  dry ;  the  streams  are  dry ;  the  game  is 
scarce ;  Black  Kettle  is  poor,  and  his  band  is  hungry.  He 
asks  the  white  soldiers  for  food  for  his  braves  and  their 
squaws  and  papooses.  All  other  Indians  may  take  the 
war-trail,  but  Black  Kettle  will  forever  keep  friendship 
with  his  white  brothers." 

Such  were  his  honeyed  words.  The  commander  of  the 
fort  issued  to  each  brave  a  bountiful  supply  of  flour  and 
bacon  and  beans  and  coffee.  Beyond  the  shadow  of  the 
fort  they  feasted  that  night.  The  next  morning  they  had 
disappeared,  these  loving-hearted,  loyal  Indians,  over 
whom  the  home  missionary  used  to  weep  copious  tears 
of  pity.  They  had  gone  —  but  whither?  Black  Kettle 
and  his  noble  braves  were  not  hurrying  southward  to- 
ward their  squaws  and  papooses  with  the  liberal  sup- 
plies issued  to  them  by  the  Government.  Crossing  to 
the  Saline  Valley,  not  good  Indians,  but  a  band  of  human 
fiends,  they  swept  down  on  the  unsuspecting  settlements. 

248 


BEGINNING    AGAIN 

A  homestead  unprotected  by  the  husband  and  father  was 
their  supreme  joy.  Then  before  the  eyes  of  the  mother, 
little  children  were  tortured  to  death,  while  the  mother 
herself  —  God  pity  her  —  was  not  only  tortured,  but  what 
was  more  cruel,  was  kept  alive. 

Across  the  Saline  Valley,  over  the  divide,  and  up  the 
Solomon  River  Valley  this  band  of  demons  pushed  their 
way.  Behind  them  were  hot  ashes  where  homes  had 
been,  and  putrid,  unburied  bodies  of  murdered  men  and 
children,  mutilated  beyond  recognition.  On  their  ponies, 
bound  hand  and  foot,  were  wretched,  terror-stricken 
women.  The  smiling  Plains  lay  swathed  in  the  August 
sunshine,  and  the  richness  of  purple  twilights,  and  of  rose- 
hued  day  dawns,  and  the  pitiless  noontime  skies  of  brass 
only  mocked  them  in  their  misery.  Did  a  merciful  God 
forget  the  Plains  in  those  days  of  prairie  conquest?  No 
force  rose  up  to  turn  Black  Kettle  and  his  murderous 
horde  back  from  the  imperilled  settlements  until  loaded 
with  plunder,  their  savage  souls  sated  with  cruelty,  with 
helpless  captives  for  promise  of  further  fiendish  sport, 
they  headed  southward  and  escaped  untouched  to  their 
far-away  village  in  the  pleasant,  grassy  lands  that  border 
the  Washita  River. 

Not  all  their  captives  went  with  them,  however.  With 
these  "  good  Indians,"  recipients  of  the  Fort  Hays  bounty, 
were  two  women,  mothers  of  a  few  months,  not  equal  to 
the  awful  tax  of  human  endurance.  These,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  they  staked  out  on  the  solitary  Plains  under 
the  blazing  August  skies,  while  their  tormentors  rode 
gayly  away  to  join  their  fat,  lazy  squaws  awaiting  them 
in  the  southland  by  the  winding  Washita. 

This  was  the  story  Morton  was  telling  to  me  as  we 
sat  in  the  dusk  by  his  cabin  door.  This  was  the  condition 
of  those  fair  Kansas  River  valleys,  for  the  Cheyennes 

249 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

under  Black  Kettle  were  not  the  only  foes  here.  Other 
Cheyenne  bands,  with  the  Sioux,  the  Brules,  and  the 
Dog  Indians  from  every  tribe  were  making  every  Plains 
trail  a  warpath. 

"  The  captives  are  probably  all  dead  by  this  time ;  but 
the  crimes  are  not  avenged,  and  the  settlers  are  no  safer 
than  they  were  before  the  raid,"  Morton  was  saying. 
"  Governor  Crawford  and  the  Governor  of  Colorado  have 
urged  the  authorities  at  Washington  to  protect  our  fron- 
tier, but  they  have  done  nothing.  Now  General  Sheridan 
has  decided  to  act  anyhow.  He  has  given  orders  to  Col- 
onel George  A.  Forsyth  of  the  U.  S.  Cavalry,  to  make  up 
a  company  of  picked  men  to  go  after  the  Cheyennes  at 
once.  There  are  some  two  hundred  of  them  hiding  some- 
where out  in  the  Solomon  or  the  Republican  River  coun- 
try. It  is  business  now.  No  foolishness.  A  lot  of  us 
around  here  are  going  down  to  Harker  to  enlist.  Will 
you  go  with  us,  Baronet?  It  's  no  boys'  play.  The  safety 
of  our  homes  is  matched  against  the  cunning  savagery 
of  the  redskins.  We  paid  fifteen  million  dollars  for  this 
country  west  of  the  Mississippi.  If  these  Indians  are  n't 
driven  out  and  made  to  suffer,  and  these  women's  wrongs 
avenged,  we  'd  better  sell  the  country  back  to  France  for 
fifteen  cents.  But  it 's  no  easy  piece  of  work.  Those 
Cheyennes  know  these  Plains  as  well  as  you  know  the 
streets  of  Springvale.  They  are  built  like  giants,  and 
they  fight  like  demons.  Don't  underestimate  the  size 
of  the  contract.  I  know  John  Baronet  well  enough  to 
know  that  if  his  boy  begins,  he  won't  quit  till  the  battle 
is  done.  I  want  you  to  go  into  this  with  your  eyes  open. 
Whoever  fights  the  Indians  must  make  his  will  before 
the  battle  begins.  Forsyth's  company  will  be  made  up 
of  soldiers  from  the  late  war,  frontiersmen,  and  scouts. 
You  're  not  any  one  of  these,  but  — "  he  hesitated  a  little 

250 


BEGINNING    AGAIN 

— "  when  I  heard  your  speech  at  Topeka  I  knew  you  had 
the  right  metal.  Your  spirit  is  in  this  thing.  You  are 
willing  to  pay  the  price  demanded  here  for  the  hearth- 
stones of  the  West." 

My  spirit!  My  blood  was  racing  through  every  artery 
in  leaps  and  bounds.  Here  was  a  man  calmly  setting 
forth  the  action  that  had  been  my  very  dream  of  heroism, 
and  here  was  a  call  to  duty,  where  duty  and  ideal  blend 
into  one.  And  then  I  was  young,  and  thought  myself  at 
the  beginning  of  a  new  life;  pain  of  body  was  unknown 
to  me;  the  lure  of  the  Plains  was  calling  to  me  —  daring 
adventure,  the  need  for  courage,  the  patriotism  that  fires 
the  young  man's  heart,  and,  at  the  final  analysis,  my 
loyalty  to  the  defenceless,  my  secret  notions  of  the  value 
of  the  American  home,  my  horror  of  Indian  captivity,  a 
horror  I  had  known  when  my  mind  was  most  impressible  — 
all  these  were  motives  driving  me  on.  I  wondered  that 
my  companion  could  be  so  calm,  sitting  there  in  the 
dim  twilight  explaining  carefully  what  lay  before  me; 
and  yet  I  felt  the  power  of  that  calmness  building  up  a 
surer  strength  in  me.  I  did  not  dream  of  home  that  night. 
I  chased  Indians  until  I  wakened  with  a  scream. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Baronet?  "  Morton  asked. 

"  I  thought  the  Cheyennes  had  me,"  I  answered  sleepily. 

"  Don't  waste  time  in  dreaming  it.  Better  go  to  sleep 
and  let  'em  alone,"  he  advised ;  and  I  obeyed. 

The  next  morning  we  were  joined  by  half  a  dozen  set- 
tlers of  that  scattered  community,  and  together  we  rode 
across  the  Plains  toward  Fort  Harker.  I  had  expected  to 
find  a  fortified  stronghold  at  the  end  of  our  ride.  Some- 
thing in  imposing  stone  on  a  commanding  height. 
Something  of  frowning,  impenetrable  strength.  Out  on 
the  open  plain  by  the  lazy,  slow-crawling  Smoky  Hill  River 
were  low  buildings  forming  a  quadrangle  about  a  parade 

251 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

ground.  Officers'  quarters,  soldiers'  barracks,  and  sta- 
bles for  the  cavalry  horses  and  Government  mules,  there 
were,  but  no  fortifications  were  there  anywhere.  Yet  the 
fort  was  ample  for  the  needs  of  the  Plains.  The  Indian 
puts  up  only  a  defensive  fight  in  the  region  of  Federal 
power.  It  is  out  in  the  wide  blank  lands  where  distance 
mocks  at  retreat  that  he  leads  out  in  open  hostility  against 
the  white  man.  Here  General  Sheridan  had  given  Col- 
onel Forsyth  commission  to  organize  a  Company  of 
Plainsmen.  And  this  Company  was  to  drive  out  or  anni- 
hilate the  roving  bands  of  redskins  who  menaced  every 
home  along  the  westward-creeping  Kansas  frontier  in  the 
years  that  followed  the  Civil  War.  It  was  to  offer  them- 
selves to  this  cause  that  the  men  from  Morton's  commu- 
nity, whom  I  had  joined,  rode  across  the  divide  from  the 
Saline  Valley  on  that  August  day,  and  came  in  the  early 
twilight  to  the  solitary  unpretentious  Federal  post  on  the 
Smoky  Hill. 

It  is  only  to  a  military  man  in  the  present  time  that  this 
picture  of  Fort  Harker  would  be  interesting,  and  there 
is  nothing  now  in  all  that  peaceful  land  to  suggest  the 
frontier  military  station  which  I  saw  on  that  summer  day, 
now  nearly  four  decades  ago.  But  everything  was  inter- 
esting to  me  then,  and  my  greatest  study  was  the  men 
gathered  there  for  a  grim  and  urgent  purpose.  My  im- 
pression of  frontiersmen  had  been  shaped  by  the  loud 
threats,  the  swagger,  and  much  profanity  of  the  border 
people  of  the  Territorial  and  Civil  War  days.  Here  were 
quiet  men  who  made  no  boasts.  Strong,  wiry  men  they 
were,  tanned  by  the  sun  of  the  Plains,  their  hands  har- 
dened, their  eyes  keen.  They  were  military  men  who  rode 
like  centaurs,  scouts  who  shot  with  marvellous  accuracy, 
and  the  sturdy  settlers,  builders  of  empire  in  this  stubborn 

252 


BEGINNING    AGAIN 

West.  Had  I  been  older  I  would  have  felt  my  own  lack 
of  training  among  them.  My  hands,  beside  theirs,  were 
soft  and  white,  and  while  I  was  accounted  a  good  marks- 
man in  Springvale  I  was  a  novice  here.  But  since  the 
night  long  ago  when  Jean  Pahusca  frightened  Marjie  by 
peering  through  our  schoolroom  window  I  had  felt  my- 
self in  duty  bound  to  drive  back  the  Indians.  I  had  a 
giant's  strength,  and  no  Baronet  was  ever  seriously  called 
a  coward. 

The  hours  at  Fort  Harker  were  busy  ones  for  Colonel 
Forsyth  and  Lieutenant  Fred  Beecher,  first  in  command 
under  him.  Their  task  of  selecting  men  for  the  expedi- 
tion was  quickly  performed.  My  heart  beat  fast  when  my 
own  turn  came.  Forsyth's  young  lieutenant  was  one 
of  the  Lord's  anointed.  Soft-voiced,  modest,  handsome, 
with  a  nature  so  lovable,  I  find  it  hard  to-day  to  think  of 
him  in  the  military  ranks  where  war  and  bloodshed  are 
the  ultimate  business.  But  young  Beecher  was  a  soldier 
of  the  highest  order,  fearless  and  resourceful.  I  cannot 
say  how  much  it  lay  in  Morton's  recommendation,  and 
how  much  in  the  lieutenant's  kind  heart  that  I  was  able 
to  pass  muster  and  be  written  into  that  little  company 
of  less  than  threescore  picked  men.  The  available  ma- 
terial at  Fort  Harker  was  quickly  exhausted,  and  the  men 
chosen  were  hurried  by  trains  to  Fort  Hays,  where  the  re- 
mainder of  the  Company  was  made  up. 

Dawned  then  that  morning  in  late  Summer  when  we 
moved  out  from  the  Fort  and  fronted  the  wilderness.  On 
the  night  before  we  started  I  wrote  a  brief  letter  to  Aunt 
Candace,  telling  her  what  I  was  about  to  do. 

"  If  I  never  come  back,  auntie,"  I  added,  "  tell  the 
little  girl  down  on  the  side  of  the  hill  that  I  tried  to  do 
for  Kansas  what  her  father  did  for  the  nation,  that  I  gave 

253 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

up  my  life  to  establish  peace.  And  tell  her,  too,  if  I  really 
do  fall  out  by  the  way,  that  I  '11  be  lonely  even  in  heaven 
till  she  comes." 

But  with  the  morning  all  my  sentiment  vanished  and 
I  was  eager  for  the  thing  before  me.  Two  hundred  In- 
dians we  were  told  we  should  find  and  every  man  of  us 
was  accounted  good  for  at  least  five  redskins.  At  sun- 
rise on  the  twenty-ninth  day  of  August  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord  1868,  Colonel  Forsyth's  little  company  started  on  its 
expedition  of  defence  for  the  frontier  settlements,  and  for 
just  vengeance  on  the  Cheyennes  of  the  plains  and  their 
allied  forces  from  kindred  bands.  Fort  Hays  was  the 
very  outpost  of  occupation.  To  the  north  and  west  lay 
a  silent,  pathless  country  which  the  finger  of  the  white 
man  had  not  touched.  We  knew  we  were  bidding  good- 
bye to  civilization  as  we  marched  out  that  morning,  were 
turning  our  backs  on  safety  and  comfort  and  all  that 
makes  life  fine.  Before  us  was  the  wilderness,  with  its 
perils  and  lonely  desolation  and  mysteries. 

But  the  wilderness  has  a  siren's  power  over  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  always.  The  strange  savage  land  was  splendid 
even  in  its  silent  level  sweep  of  distance.  When  I  was 
a  boy  I  used  to  think  that  the  big  cottonwood  beyond  the 
West  Draw  was  the  limit  of  human  exploration.  It 
marked  the  world's  western  bound  for  me.  Here  were 
miles  on  miles  of  landscape  opening  wide  to  more  stretches 
of  leagues  and  leagues  of  far  boundless  plains,  and  all  of  it 
was  weird,  unconquerable,  and  very  beautiful.  The  earth 
was  spread  with  a  carpet  of  gold  splashed  with  bronze 
and  scarlet  and  purple,  with  here  and  there  a  shimmer  of 
green  showing  through  the  yellow,  or  streaking  the  shal- 
low waterways.  Far  and  wide  there  was  not  a  tree  to 
give  the  eye  a  point  of  attachment;  neither  orchard  nor 
forest  nor  lonely  sentinel  to  show  that  Nature  had  ever 

254 


BEGINNING    AGAIN 

cherished  the  land  for  the  white  man's  home  and  joy. 
The  buffalo  herd  paid  little  heed  to  our  brave  company 
marching  out  like  the  true  knights  of  old  to  defend  the 
weak  and  oppressed.  The  gray  wolf  skulked  along  in  the 
shadows  of  the  draws  behind  us  and  at  night  the  coyotes 
barked  harshly  at  the  invading  band.  But  there  was  no 
mark  of  civilized  habitation,  no  friendly  hint  that  aught 
but  the  unknown  and  unconquerable  lay  before  us. 

I  was  learning  quickly  in  those  days  of  marching  and 
nights  of  dreamless  sleep  under  sweet,  health-giving  skies. 
After  all,  Harvard  had  done  me  much  service;  for  the 
university  training,  no  less  than  the  boyhood  on  the  Ter- 
ritorial border,  had  its  part  in  giving  me  mental  disci- 
pline for  my  duties  now.  Camp  life  came  easy  to  me,  and 
I  fell  into  the  soldier  way  of  thinking,  more  readily  than  I 
had  ever  hoped  to  do. 

On  we  went,  northward  to  the  Saline  Valley,  and  beyond 
that  to  where  the  Solomon  River  winds  down  through  a 
region  of  summer  splendor,  its  rippling  waves  of  sod 
a-tint  with  all  the  green  and  gold  and  russet  and  crimson 
hues  of  the  virgin  Plains,  while  overhead  there  arched 
the  sky,  tenderly  blue  in  the  morning,  brazen  at  noon- 
day, and  pink  and  gray  and  purple  in  the  evening  lights. 
But  we  found  no  Indians,  though  we  followed  trail  on 
trail.  Beyond  the  Solomon  we  turned  to  the  southwest, 
and  the  early  days  of  September  found  us  resting  briefly 
at  Fort  Wallace,  near  the  western  bound  of  Kansas. 

The  real  power  that  subdues  the  wilderness  may  be, 
nay,  is,  the  spirit  of  the  missionary,  but  the  mark  of  mili- 
tary occupation  is  a  tremendous  convincer  of  truth.  The 
shotgun  and  the  Bible  worked  side  by  side  in  the  con- 
quest of  the  Plains;  the  smell  of  powder  was  often  the 
only  incense  on  the  altars,  and  human  blood  was  sprinkled 
for  holy  water.  Fort  Wallace,  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes 

255 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

afloat,  looked  good  to  me  after  that  ten  days  in  the  track- 
less solitude.  And  yet  I  was  disappointed,  for  I  thought 
our  quest  might  end  here  with  nothing  to  show  in  results 
for  our  pains.  I  did  not  know  Forsyth  and  his  band,  as 
the  next  twenty  days  were  to  show  me. 

While  we  were  resting  at  the  Fort,  scouts  brought  in 
the  news  of  an  Indian  attack  on  a  wagon  train  a  score  of 
miles  eastward,  and  soon  we  were  away  again,  this  time 
equipped  for  the  thing  in  hand,  splendidly  equipped,  it 
seemed,  for  what  we  should  really  need  to  do.  We  were 
all  well  mounted,  and  each  of  us  carried  a  blanket,  saddle, 
bridle,  picket-pin,  and  lariat;  each  had  a  haversack,  a 
canteen,  a  butcher  knife,  a  tin  plate  and  tin  cup.  We  had 
Spencer  rifles  and  Colt's  revolvers,  with  rounds  of  ammu- 
nition for  both ;  and  each  of  us  carried  seven  days'  rations. 
Besides  this  equipment  the  pack  mules  bore  a  large  addi- 
tional store  of  ammunition,  together  with  rations  and  hos- 
pital supplies. 

Northward  again  we  pushed,  alert  for  every  faint  sign 
of  Indians.  Those  keen-eyed  scouts  were  a  marvel  to 
me.  They  read  the  ground,  the  streams,  the  sagebrush, 
and  the  horizon  as  a  primer  set  in  fat  black  type.  Leader 
of  them,  and  official  guide,  was  a  man  named  Grover, 
who  could  tell  by  the  hither  side  of  a  bluff  what  was  on 
the  farther  side.  But  for  five  days  the  trails  were  illusive, 
finally  vanishing  in  a  spread  of  faint  footprints  radiating 
from  a  centre  telling  us  that  the  Indians  had  broken  up 
and  scattered  over  separate  ways.  And  so  again  we 
seemed  to  have  been  deceived  in  this  unmapped  land. 

We  were  beyond  the  Republican  River  now,  in  the  very 
northwest  corner  of  Kansas,  and  the  thought  of  turning 
back  toward  civilization  had  come  to  some  of  us,  when  a 
fresh  trail  told  us  we  were  still  in  the  Indian  country.  We 
headed  our  horses  toward  the  southwest,  following  the 

256 


BEGINNING    AGAIN 

trail  that  hugged  the  Republican  River.  It  did  not  fade 
out  as  the  others  had  done,  but  grew  plainer  each  mile. 

The  whole  command  was  in  a  fever  of  expectancy.  For- 
syth's  face  was  bright  and  eager  with  the  anticipation  of 
coming  danger.  Lieutenant  Beecher  was  serious  and  si- 
lent, while  the  guide,  Sharp  Grover,  was  alert  and  cool. 
A  tenseness  had  made  itself  felt  throughout  the  command. 
I  learned  early  not  to  ask  questions;  but  as  we  came  one 
noon  upon  a  broad  path  leading  up  to  the  main  trail 
where  from  this  union  we  looked  out  on  a  wide,  well- 
beaten  way,  I  turned  an  inquiring  face  toward  Morton, 
who  rode  beside  me.  There  was  strength  in  the  answer 
his  eyes  gave  mine.  He  had  what  the  latter-day  students 
of  psychology  call  "poise,"  a  grip  on  himself.  It  is  by 
such  men  that  the  Plains  have  been  won  from  a  desert 
demesne  to  fruitful  fields. 

"  I  gave  you  warning  it  was  no  boy's  play,"  he  said 
simply. 

I  nodded  and  we  rode  on  in  silence.  We  pressed  west- 
ward to  where  the  smaller  streams  combine  to  form  the 
Republican  River.  The  trail  here  led  us  up  the  Arickaree 
fork,  a  shallow  stream  at  this  season  of  the  year,  full 
of  sand-bars  and  gravelly  shoals.  Here  the  waters  lost 
themselves  for  many  feet  in  the  underflow  so  common  in 
this  land  of  aimless,  uncertain  waterways. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  sixteenth  of  September  the  trail 
led  to  a  little  gorge  through  which  the  Arickaree  passes 
in  a  narrower  channel.  Beyond  it  the  valley  opened  out 
with  a  level  space  reaching  back  to  low  hills  on  the  north, 
while  an  undulating  plain  spread  away  to  the  south.  The 
grass  was  tall  and  rank  in  this  open  space,  which  closed 
in  with  a  bluff  a  mile  or  more  to  the  west.  Although  it 
was  hardly  beyond  midafternoon,  Colonel  Forsyth  halted 
the  company,  and  we  went  into  camp.  We  were  almost 
17  257 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

out  of  rations.  Our  horses  having  no  food  now,  were 
carefully  picketed  out  to  graze  at  the  end  of  their  lariats. 
A  general  sense  of  impending  calamity  pervaded  the 
camp.  But  the  Plainsmen  were  accustomed  to  this  kind 
of  thing,  and  the  Civil  War  soldiers  had  learned  their 
lesson  at  Gettysburg  and  Chickamauga  and  Malvern  Hill. 
I  was  the  green  hand,  and  I  dare  say  my  anxiety  was 
greater  than  that  of  any  other  one  there.  But  I  had  a 
double  reason  for  apprehension. 

As  we  had  come  through  the  little  gorge  that  afternoon, 
I  was  riding  some  distance  in  the  rear  of  the  line.  Be- 
side me  was  a  boy  of  eighteen,  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  his 
cheek  as  smooth  as  a  girl's.  His  trim  little  figure,  clad 
in  picturesque  buckskin,  suggested  a  pretty  actor  in 
a  Wild  West  play.  And  yet  this  boy,  Jack  Stillwell,  was 
a  scout  of  the  uttermost  daring  and  shrewdness.  He 
always  made  me  think  of  Bud  Anderson.  I  even  missed 
Bud's  lisp  when  he  spoke. 

"  Stillwell,"  I  said  in  a  low  tone  as  we  rode  along,  "  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  this.  Are  n't  we  pretty  near  the 
edge  ?  I  've  felt  for  three  days  as  if  an  Indian  was  riding 
beside  me  and  I  couldn't  see  him.  It's  not  the  mirage, 
and  I  'm  not  locoed.  Did  you  ever  feel  as  if  you  were  near 
somebody  you  couldn't  see?" 

The  boy  turned  his  fair,  smooth  face  toward  mine  and 
looked  steadily  at  me. 

"  You  must  n't  get  to  seem'  things,"  he  murmured. 
"This  country  turns  itself  upside  down  for  the  fellow 
who  does  that.  And  in  Heaven's  name  we  need  every 
man  in  his  right  senses  now.  What  do  I  think?  Good 
God,  Baronet!  I  think  we  are  marching  straight  into 
Hell's  jaws.  Sandy  knows  it  " — "  Sandy  "  was  Forsyth's 
military  pet  name  — "  but  he  's  too  set  to  back  out  now. 
Besides,  who  wants  to  back  out  ?  or  what 's  to  be  gained 

258 


BEGINNING    AGAIN 

by  it  ?  We  've  come  out  here  to  fight  the  Cheyennes. 
We  Ve  gettin'  to  'em,  that  's  all.  Only  there  's  too  damned 
many  of  'em.  This  trail's  like  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail, 
wide  enough  for  a  Mormon  church  to  move  along.  And 
as  to  f eelin'  like  somebody  's  near  you,  it 's  more  'n  f eelin' ; 
it 's  fact.  There 's  Injuns  on  track  of  this  squad  every 
minute.  I  'm  only  eighteen,  but  I  've  been  in  the  saddle 
six  years,  and  I  know  a  few  things  without  seein'  'em. 
Sharp  Grover  knows,  too.  He's  the  doggondest  scout 
that  ever  rode  over  these  Plains.  He  knows  the  trap 
we  've  got  into.  But  he  's  like  Sandy,  come  out  to  fight, 
and  he'll  do  it.  All  we've  got  to  do  is  to  keep  our 
opinions  to  ourselves.  They  don't  want  to  be  told  nothin' ; 
they  know." 

The  remainder  of  the  company  was  almost  out  of  sight 
as  we  rounded  the  shoulder  of  the  gorge.  The  afternoon 
sunlight  dazzled  me.  Lifting  my  eyes  just  then  I  saw  a 
strange  vision.  What  I  had  thought  to  be  only  a  piece  of 
brown  rock,  above  and  beyond  me,  slowly  rose  to  almost  a 
sitting  posture  before  my  blinking  eyes,  and  a  man,  no, 
two  men,  seemed  to  gaze  a  moment  after  our  retreating 
line  of  blue-coats.  It  was  but  an  instant,  yet  I  caught 
sight  of  two  faces.  Stillwell  was  glancing  backward  at 
that  moment  and  did  not  see  anything.  At  the  sound 
of  our  horses'  feet  on  the  gravel  the  two  figures  changed 
to  brown  rock  again.  In  the  moment  my  eye  had  caught 
the  merest  glint  of  sunlight  on  an  artillery  bugle,  a  gleam, 
and  nothing  more. 

"What's  the  matter,  Baronet?  You're  white  as  a 
ghost.  Are  you  scared  or  sick?"  Stillwell  spoke  in  a 
low  voice.  We  did  n't  do  any  shouting  in  those  trying 
days. 

"  Neither  one,"  I  answered,  but  I  had  cause  to  wonder 
whether  I  was  insane  or  not.  As  I  live,  and  hope  to 

259 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

keep  my  record  clear,  the  two  figures  I  had  seen  were 
not  strangers  to  me.  The  smaller  of  the  two  had  the 
narrow  forehead  and  secretive  countenance  of  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Dodd.  In  his  hand  was  an  artillery  bugle. 
Beyond  him,  though  he  wore  an  Indian  dress,  rose  the 
broad  shoulders  and  square,  black-shadowed  forehead  of 
Father  Le  Claire. 

"  It  is  the  hallucination  of  this  mirage-girt  land,"  I 
told  myself.  "  The  Plains  life  is  affecting  my  vision,  and 
then  the  sun  has  blinded  me.  I  'm  not  delirious,  but  this 
marching  is  telling  on  me.  Oh,  it  is  at  a  fearful  price 
that  the  frontier  creeps  westward,  that  homes  are  planted, 
and  peace,  blood-stained,  abides  with  them." 

So  I  meditated  as  I  watched  the  sun  go  down  on  that 
September  night  on  the  far  Colorado  Plains  by  the  grassy 
slopes  and  yellow  sands  and  thin,  slow-moving  currents 
of  the  Arickaree. 


260 


CHAPTER    XVII 

IN    THE 
VALLEY     OF    THE    ARICKAREE 

A  blush  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch  grass. 

But  not  of  the  dew! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  mild  bees  to  shun! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun! 

—  WHITTIEE. 

OJTILLWELL  was  right.  Sharp  Grover  knew,  as  well 
V^  as  the  boy  knew,  that  we  were  trapped,  that  before 
us  now  were  the  awful  chances  of  unequal  Plains  warfare. 
A  mere  handful  of  us  had  been  hurrying  after  a  host, 
whose  numbers  the  broad  beaten  road  told  us  was  legion. 
There  was  no  mirth  in  that  little  camp  that  night  in  mid- 
September,  and  I  thought  of  other  things  besides  my 
strange  vision  at  the  gorge.  The  camp  was  the  only 
mark  of  human  habitation  in  all  that  wide  and  utterly 
desolate  land.  For  days  we  had  noted  even  the  absence 
of  all  game  —  strong  evidence  that  a  host  had  driven 
it  away  before  us.  Everywhere,  save  about  that  winking 
camp  fire  was  silence.  The  sunset  was  gorgeous,  in  the 
barbaric  sublimity  of  its  seas  of  gold  and  crimson  at- 
mosphere. And  then  came  the  rich  coloring  of  that  pur- 
ple twilight.  It  is  no  wonder  they  call  it  regal.  Out  on 

261 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

the  Plains  that  night  it  swathed  the  landscape  with  a 
rarer  hue  than  I  have  ever  seen  anywhere  else,  although 
I  have  watched  the  sun  go  down  into  the  Atlantic  off 
the  Rockport  coast,  and  have  seen  it  lost  over  the  edge 
of  the  West  Prairie  beyond  the  big  cottonwood  above 
the  farther  draw.  As  I  watched  the  evening  shadows 
deepen,  I  remembered  what  Morton  had  told  me  in  the 
little  cabin  back  in  the  Saline  country,  "  Who  ever  fights 
the  Indians  must  make  his  will  before  the  battle  begins." 
Now  that  I  was  face  to  face  with  the  real  issue,  life  be- 
came very  sweet  to  me.  How  grand  over  war  and  hate 
were  the  thoughts  of  peace  and  love !  And  yet  every  foot 
of  this  beautiful  land  must  be  bought  with  a  price.  No 
matter  where  the  great  blame  lies,  nor  who  sinned  first 
in  getting  formal  possession,  the  real  occupation  is  won 
only  by  sacrifice.  And  I  was  confronted  with  my  part 
of  the  offering.  Strange  thoughts  come  in  such  an  hour. 
Sitting  there  in  the  twilight,  I  asked  myself  why  I  should 
want  to  live;  and  I  realized  how  strong,  after  all,  was 
the  tie  that  bound  me  to  Springvale;  how  under  all  my 
pretence  of  beginning  a  new  life  I  had  not  really  faced 
the  future  separated  from  the  girl  I  loved.  And  then  I 
remembered  that  it  would  mean  nothing  serious  to  her 
how  this  campaign  ended.  Oh!  I  was  in  the  crucible 
now.  I  must  prove  myself  the  thing  I  always  meant  to 
be.  God  knew  the  heroic  spirit  I  needed  that  lonely  Sep- 
tember night.  As  I  sat  looking  out  toward  the  west  the 
years  of  my  boyhood  came  back  to  me,  and  then  I  re- 
membered O'mie's  words  when  he  told  me  of  his  struggle : 

"  It  was  to  save  a  woman,  Phil.  He  could  only  kill 
me.  He  would  n't  have  been  that  good  to  her.  You  'd 
have  done  the  same  to  save  any  woman,  aven  a  stranger 
to  you.  Wait  an'  see." 

I  thought  of  the  two  women  in  the  Solomon  Valley, 

262 


IN    THE    ARICKAREE    VALLEY 

whom  Black  Kettle's  band  had  dragged  from  their  homes, 
tortured  inhumanly,  and  at  last  staked  out  hand  and  foot 
on  the  prairie  to  die  in  agony  under  pitiless  skies. 

"When  the  day  av  chooshV  comes,"  O'mie  said,  "we 
can't  do  no  more'n  to  take  our  places.  We  all  do  it. 
When  you  git  face  to  face  with  a  thing  like  that,  somehow 
the  everlastin*  arms  Dr.  Hemingway  preaches  about  is 
strong  underneath  you." 

Oh,  blessed  O'mie!  Had  he  told  me  that  to  give  me 
courage  in  my  hour  of  shrinking?  Wherever  he  was  to- 
night I  knew  his  heart  was  with  me,  who  so  little  deserved 
the  love  he  gave  me.  At  last  I  rolled  myself  snugly  in 
my  blanket,  for  the  September  evenings  are  cold  in  Col- 
orado. The  simple  prayers  of  childhood  came  back  to 
me,  and  I  repeated  the  "  Now  I  lay  me  "  I  used  to  say 
every  night  at  Aunt  Candace's  knee.  It  had  a  wonderful 
meaning  to  me  to-night.  And  once  more  I  thought  of 
O'mie  and  how  his  thin  hand  gripped  mine  when  he  said: 
"  Most  av  all,  don't  niver  forgit  it,  Phil,  when  the  thing 
comes  to  you,  aven  in  your  strength.  Most  av  all,  above 
all  sufferin',  and  natural  longin'  to  live,  there  comes  the 
reality  av  them  words  Aunt  Candace  taught  us :  '  Though 
I  walk  through  the  valley  av  the  shadow  av  death,  I  will 
fear  no  evil.' " 

"It  may  be  that's  the  Arickaree  Valley  for  me,"  I 
said  to  myself.  "  If  it  is,  I  will  fear  no  evil."  And  I 
stretched  out  on  the  brown  grasses  and  fell  asleep. 

About  midnight  I  wakened  suddenly.  A  light  was 
gleaming  near.  Some  one  stood  beside  me,  and  presently 
I  saw  Colonel  Forsyth  looking  down  into  my  face  with 
kindly  eyes.  I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow  and  watched 
him  passing  among  the  slumbering  soldiers.  Even  now 
I  can  see  Jack  Stillwell's  fair  girl-face  with  the  dim  light 
on  it  as  he  slept  beside  me.  What  a  picture  that  face 

263 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

would  make  if  my  pen  were  an  artist's  brush!  At  three 
in  the  morning  I  wakened  again.  It  was  very  dark,  but 
I  knew  some  one  was  near  me,  and  I  judged  instinctively 
it  was  Forsyth.  It  was  sixty  hours  before  I  slept  again. 

For  five  days  every  movement  of  ours  had  been  watched 
by  Indian  scouts.  Night  and  day  they  had  hung  on  our 
borders,  just  out  of  sight,  waiting  their  time  to  strike. 
Had  we  made  a  full  march  on  that  sixteenth  day  of  Sep- 
tember, instead  of  halting  to  rest  and  graze  our  horses, 
we  should  have  gone,  as  Stillwell  predicted,  straight  into 
Hell's  jaws.  As  it  was,  Hell  rose  up  and  crept  stealthily 
toward  us.  For  while  our  little  band  slept,  and  while 
our  commander  passed  restlessly  among  us  on  that  night, 
the  redskins  moved  upon  our  borders. 

Morning  was  gray  in  the  east  and  the  little  valley  was 
full  of  shadows,  when  suddenly  the  sentinel's  cry  of  "  In- 
dians !  Indians ! "  aroused  the  sleeping  force.  The  shouts 
of  our  guards,  the  clatter  of  ponies'  hoofs,  the  rattling  of 
dry  skins,  the  swinging  of  blankets,  the  fierce  yells 
of  the  invading  foe  made  a  scene  of  tragic  confusion,  as 
a  horde  of  redskins  swept  down  upon  us  like  a  whirlwind. 
In  this  mad  attempt  to  stampede  our  stock  nothing  but 
discipline  saved  us.  A  few  of  the  mules  and  horses  not 
properly  picketed,  broke  loose  and  galloped  off  before 
the  attacking  force,  the  remaining  animals  held  as  the 
Indians  fled  away  before  the  sharp  fire  of  our  soldiers. 

"  Well,  we  licked  them,  anyhow,"  I  said  to  myself  ex- 
ultantly as  we  obeyed  the  instant  orders  to  get  into  the 
saddle. 

The  first  crimson  line  of  morning  was  streaking  the 
east  and  I  lifted  my  face  triumphantly  to  the  new  day. 
Sharp  Grover  stood  just  before  me;  his  hand  was  on 
Forsyth's  shoulder. 

264 


IN     THE     ARICKAREE    VALLEY 

Suddenly  he  uttered  a  low  exclamation.  "  Oh,  heav- 
ens! General,  look  at  the  Indians." 

This  was  no  vision  of  brown  rock  and  sun-blinded  eyes. 
From  every  direction,  over  the  bluff,  out  from  the  tall 
grass,  across  the  slope  on  the  south,  came  Indians,  hun- 
dreds on  hundreds.  They  seemed  to  spring  from  the  sod 
like  Roderick  Dhu's  Highland  Scots,  and  people  every 
curve  and  hollow.  Swift  as  the  wind,  savage  as  hate, 
cruel  as  hell,  they  bore  down  upon  us  from  every  way 
the  wind  blows.  The  thrill  of  that  moment  is  in  my 
blood  as  I  write  this.  It  was  then  I  first  understood  the 
tie  between  the  commanding  officer  and  his  men.  It  is 
easy  to  laud  the  file  of  privates  on  dress  parade,  but  the 
man  who  directs  the  file  in  the  hour  of  battle  is  the  real 
power.  In  that  instant  of  peril  I  turned  to  Forsyth  with 
that  trust  that  the  little  child  gives  to  its  father.  How 
cool  he  was,  and  yet  how  lightning-swift  in  thought  and 
action. 

In  all  the  valley  there  was  no  refuge  where  we  might 
hide,  nor  height  on  which  we  might  defend  ourselves., 
The  Indians  had  counted  on  our  making  a  dash  to  the 
eastward,  and  had  left  that  way  open  for  us.  They  had 
not  reckoned  well  on  Colonel  Forsyth.  He  knew  intui- 
tively that  the  gorge  at  the  lower  end  of  the  valley  was  even 
then  filled  with  a  hidden  foe,  and  not  a  man  of  us  would 
ever  have  passed  through  it  alive.  To  advance  meant 
death,  and  there  was  no  retreat  possible.  Out  in  the 
middle  of  the  Arickaree,  hardly  three  feet  above  the  river- 
bed, lay  a  little  island.  In  the  years  to  be  when  the  his- 
tory of  the  West  shall  be  fully  told,  it  may  become  one 
of  the  Nation's  shrines.  But  now  in  this  dim  morning 
light  it  showed  only  an  insignificant  elevation.  Its  sandy 
surface  was  grown  over  with  tall  sage  grasses  and  weeds. 

265 


THE     PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

A  few  wild  plums  and  alder  bushes,  a  clump  of  low  willow 
shrubs,  and  a  small  cottonwood  tree  completed  its  vege- 
tation. 

"  How  about  that  island,  Grover? "  I  heard  Forsyth 
ask. 

"  It 's  all  we  can  do,"  the  scout  answered ;  and  the  com- 
mand :  "  Reach  the  island !  hitch  the  horses !  "  rang  through 
the  camp. 

It  takes  long  to  tell  it,  this  dash  for  the  island.  The 
execution  of  the  order  was  like  the  passing  of  a  hurricane. 
Horses,  mules,  men,  all  dashed  toward  the  place,  but  in 
the  rush  the  hospital  supplies  and  rations  were  lost.  The 
Indians  had  not  counted  on  the  island,  and  they  raged  in 
fury  at  their  oversight.  There  were  a  thousand  savage 
warriors  attacking  half  a  hundred  soldiers,  and  they  had 
gloated  over  the  fifty  scalps  to  be  taken  in  the  little  gorge 
to  the  east.  The  break  in  their  plans  confused  them 
but  momentarily,  however. 

On  the  island  we  tied  our  horses  in  the  bushes  and 
quickly  formed  a  circle.  The  soil  was  all  soft  sand.  We 
cut  the  thin  sod  with  our  butcher  knives  and  began  throw- 
ing up  a  low  defence,  working  like  fiends  with  our  hands 
and  elbows  and  toes,  scooping  out  the  sand  with  our  tin 
plates,  making  the  commencement  of  shallow  pits.  We 
were  stationed  in  couples,  and  I  was  beside  Morton  when 
the  onslaught  came.  Up  from  the  undulating  south,  and 
down  over  the  north  bluff  swept  the  furious  horde.  On 
they  came  with  terrific  speed,  their  blood-curdling  yells 
of  hate  mingling  with  the  wild  songs,  and  cries  and  taunts 
of  hundreds  of  squaws  and  children  that  crowded  the 
heights  out  of  range  of  danger,  watching  the  charge  and 
urging  their  braves  to  battle.  Over  the  slopes  to  the 
very  banks  of  the  creek,  into  the  sandy  bed  of  the  stream, 
and  up  to  the  island  they  hurled  their  forces,  while  bullets 

266 


IN     THE     ARICKAREE     VALLEY 

crashed   murderously,   and   arrows   whizzed  with   deadly 
swiftness  into  our  little  sand-built  defence. 

In  the  midst  of  the  charge,  twice  above  the  din,  I  caught 
the  clear  notes  of  an  artillery  bugle.  It  was  dim  day- 
light now.  Rifle-smoke  and  clouds  of  dust  and  gray  mist 
shot  through  with  flashes  of  powder,  and  the  awful  rage, 
as  if  all  the  demons  of  Hell  were  crying  vengeance,  are 
all  in  that  picture  burned  into  my  memory  with  a  white- 
hot  brand.  And  above  all  these  there  come  back  to  me 
the  faces  of  that  little  band  of  resolute  men  biding  the 
moment  when  the  command  to  charge  should  be  given. 
Such  determination  and  such  splendid  heroism,  not  twice 
in  a  lifetime  is  it  vouchsafed  to  many  to  behold. 

We  held  our  fire  until  the  enemy  was  almost  upon  us. 
At  the  right  instant  our  rifles  poured  out  a  perfect  billow 
of  death.  Painted  bodies  reeled  and  fell;  horses  sank 
down,  or  rushed  mad  with  pain,  upon  their  fallen  riders; 
shrieks  of  agony  mingled  with  the  unearthly  yells;  while 
above  all  this,  the  steady  roar  of  our  guns  —  not  a  wasted 
bullet  in  all  the  line  —  carried  death  waves  out  from  the 
island  thicket.  To  me  that  first  defence  of  ours  was 
more  tragic  than  anything  in  the  days  and  nights  that 
followed  it.  The  first  hour's  struggle  seasoned  me  for 
the  siege. 

The  fury  of  the  Indian  warriors  and  of  the  watching 
squaws  is  indescribable.  The  foe  deflected  to  left  and 
right,  vainly  seeking  to  carry  their  dead  from  the  field 
with  them.  The  effort  cost  many  Indian  lives.  The  long 
grass  on  either  side  of  the  stream  was  full  of  sharp- 
shooters. The  morning  was  bright  now,  and  we  durst 
not  lift  our  heads  above  our  low  entrenchment.  Our  po- 
sition was  in  the  centre  of  a  space  open  to  attack  from 
every  arc  of  the  circle.  Caution  counted  more  than  cour- 
age here.  Whoever  stood  upright  was  offering  his  life 

267 


THE     PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

to  his  enemy.  Our  horses  suffered  first.  By  the  end  of 
an  hour  every  one  of  them  was  dead.  My  own  mount,  a 
fine  sorrel  cavalry  horse,  given  to  me  at  Fort  Hays,  was 
the  last  sacrifice.  He  was  standing  near  me  in  the  brown 
bushes.  I  could  see  his  superb  head  and  chest  as,  with 
nostrils  wide,  and  flashing  eyes,  he  saw  and  felt  the  battle 
charge.  Subconsciously  I  felt  that  so  long  as  he  was 
unhurt  I  had  a  sure  way  of  escape.  Subconsciously,  too, 
I  blessed  the  day  that  Bud  Anderson  taught  O'mie  and 
me  to  drop  on  the  side  of  Tell  Mapleson's  pony  and  ride 
like  a  Plains  Indian.  But  even  as  I  looked  up  over  my 
little  sand  ridge  a  bullet  crashed  into  his  broad  chest.  He 
plunged  forward  toward  us,  breaking  his  tether.  He 
staggered  to  his  knees,  rose  again  with  a  lunge,  and 
turning  half  way  round  reared  his  fore  feet  in  agony  and 
seemed  about  to  fall  into  our  pit.  At  that  instant  I  heard 
a  laugh  just  beyond  the  bushes,  and  a  voice,  not  Indian, 
but  English,  cried  exultingly,  "  There  goes  the  last  damned 
horse,  anyhow." 

It  was  the  same  voice  that  I  had  heard  up  on  "  Rock- 
port  "  one  evening,  promising  Marjie  in  pleading  tones 
to  be  a  "  good  Indian."  The  same  hard,  cold  voice  I 
had  heard  in  the  same  place  saying  to  me,  as  a  promise 
before  high  heaven :  "  I  will  go.  But  I  shall  see  you 
there.  When  we  meet  again  my  hand  will  be  on  your 
throat  and  —  I  don't  care  whose  son  you  are." 

Well,  we  were  about  to  meet.  The  wounded  animal 
was  just  above  our  pit.  Morton  rose  up  with  lifted  car- 
bine to  drive  him  back  when  from  the  same  gun  that  had 
done  for  my  horse  came  a  bullet  full  into  the  man's  face. 
It  ploughed  through  his  left  eye  and  lodged  in  the  bones 
beyond  it.  He  uttered  no  cry,  but  dropped  into  the  pit 
beside  me,  his  blood,  streaming  from  the  wound,  splashed 
hot  on  my  forehead  as  he  fell.  I  was  stunned  by  his  dis- 

268 


IN     THE    ARICKAREE     VALLEY 

aster,  but  he  never  faltered.  Taking  his  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket,  he  bound  it  tightly  about  his  head  and  set 
his  rifle  ready  for  the  next  charge.  After  that,  nothing 
counted  with  me.  I  no  longer  shrank  in  dread  of  what 
might  happen.  All  fear  of  life,  or  death,  of  pain,  or  In- 
dians, or  fiends  from  Hades  fell  away  from  me,  and  never 
again  did  my  hand  tremble,  nor  my  heart-beat  quicken  in 
the  presence  of  peril.  By  the  warm  blood  of  the  brave 
man  beside  me  I  was  baptized  a  soldier. 

The  force  drew  back  from  this  first  attempt  to  take  the 
island,  but  the  fire  of  the  hidden  enemy  did  not  cease.  In 
this  brief  breathing  spell  we  dug  deeper  into  our  pits, 
making  our  defences  stronger  where  we  lay.  Disaster 
was  heavy  upon  us.  The  sun  beat  down  pitilessly  on 
the  hot,  dry  earth  where  we  burrowed.  Out  in  the  open 
the  Indians  were  crawling  like  serpents  through  the  tall 
grasses  toward  our  poor  house  of  sand,  hoping  to  fall 
upon  us  unseen.  They  had  every  advantage,  for  we  did 
not  dare  to  let  our  bodies  be  exposed  above  the  low 
breastworks,  and  we  could  not  see  their  advance.  Nearly 
one-half  of  our  own  men  were  dead  or  wounded.  Each 
man  counted  for  so  much  on  that  battle-girt  island  that 
day.  Our  surgeon  had  been  struck  in  the  first  round  and 
through  all  the  rest  of  his  living  hours  he  was  in  a  de- 
lirium. Forsyth  himself,  grievously  wounded  in  both 
lower  limbs,  could  only  drag  his  body  about  by  his  arms. 
A  rifle  ball  had  grazed  his  scalp  and  fractured  his  skull. 
The  pain  from  this  wound  was  almost  unbearable.  But 
he  did  not  loosen  his  grip  on  the  military  power  dele- 
gated to  him.  From  a  hastily  scooped-out  pit  where  we 
laid  him  he  directed  the  whole  battle. 

And  now  we  girded  on  our  armor  for  the  supreme  or- 
deal. The  unbounded  wrath  of  the  Indians  at  their  un- 
looked-for failure  in  their  first  attack  told  us  what  to 

269 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

expect  Our  own  guns  were  ready  for  instant  use.  The 
arms  of  our  dead  and  wounded  comrades  were  placed 
beside  our  own.  No  time  was  there  in  those  awful  hours 
to  listen  to  the  groans  of  the  stricken  ones  nor  to  close 
the  dying  eyes.  Not  a  soul  of  us  in  those  sand-pits  had 
any  thought  that  we  should  ever  see  another  sunset.  All 
we  could  do  was  to  put  the  highest  price  upon  our  lives. 
It  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon.  The  firing  about  the 
island  had  almost  ceased,  and  the  silence  was  more  om- 
inous than  the  noise  of  bullets.  Over  on  the  bluff  the 
powers  were  gathering.  The  sunlight  glinted  on  their 
arms  and  lighted  up  their  fantastic  equipments  of  war. 
They  formed  in  battle  array.  And  then  there  came  a 
sight  the  Plains  will  never  see  again,  a  sight  that  history 
records  not  once  in  a  century.  There  were  hundreds  of 
these  warriors,  the  flower  of  the  fierce  Cheyenne  tribe, 
drawn  up  in  military  order,  mounted  on  great  horses, 
riding  bareback,  their  rifles  held  aloft  in  their  right  hands, 
the  left  hand  grasping  the  flowing  mane,  their  naked 
bodies  hideously  adorned  with  paint,  their  long  scalp-locks 
braided  and  trimmed  with  plumes  and  quills.  They  were 
the  very  acme  of  grandeur  in  a  warfare  as  splendid  as  it 
was  barbaric.  And  I,  who  live  to  write  these  lines,  ac- 
count myself  most  fortunate  that  I  saw  it  all. 

They  were  arrayed  in  battle  lines  riding  sixty  abreast. 
It  was  a  man  of  genius  who  formed  that  military  move- 
ment that  day.  On  they  came  in  orderly  ranks  but  with 
terrific  speed,  straight  down  the  slope,  across  the  level, 
and  on  to  the  island,  as  if  by  their  huge  weight  and  terri- 
ble momentum  they  would  trample  it  into  the  very  level 
dust  of  the  earth,  that  the  winds  of  heaven  might  scatter 
it  broadcast  on  the  Arickaree  waters.  Till  the  day  of  my 
death  I  shall  hear  the  hoof-beats  of  that  cavalry  charge. 

Down   through   the   centuries   the    great    commanders 

270 


IN     THE     ARICKAREE     VALLEY 

have  left  us  their  stories  of  prowess,  and  we  have  kept 
their  portraits  to  adorn  our  stately  halls  of  fame;  and  in 
our  historic  shrines  we  have  preserved  their  records  — 
Cyrus,  Alexander,  Leonidas  at  Thermopylae,  Hannibal 
crossing  the  Alps,  Charles  Martel  at  Tours,  the  white- 
plumed  Henry  of  Navarre  leading  his  soldiers  in  the  battle 
of  Ivry,  Cromwell  with  his  Ironsides  —  godly  men  who 
chanted  hymns  while  they  fought  —  Napoleon's  grand 
finale  at  Waterloo,  with  his  three  thousand  steeds 
mingling  the  sound  of  hoof-beats  with  the  clang  of 
cuirasses  and  the  clash  of  sabres;  Pickett's  grand  sweep 
at  Gettysburg,  and  Hooker's  charge  up  Lookout  Mountain. 

But  who  shall  paint  the  picture  of  that  terrific  struggle 
on  that  September  day,  or  write  the  tale  of  that  swirl  of 
Indian  warriors,  a  thousand  strong,  as  they  swept  down 
in  their  barbaric  fury  upon  the  handful  of  Anglo-Saxon 
soldiers  crouching  there  in  the  sand-pits  awaiting  their 
onslaught?  It  was  the  old,  old  story  retold  that  day  on 
the  Colorado  plains  by  the  sunlit  waters  of  the  Arickaree 
—  the  white  man's  civilization  against  the  untamed  life 
of  the  wilderness.  And  for  that  struggle  there  is  only 
one  outcome. 

Before  the  advancing  foe,  in  front  of  the  very  centre 
of  the  foremost  line,  was  their  leader,  Roman  Nose,  chief 
warrior  of  the  Cheyennes.  He  was  riding  a  great,  clean- 
limbed horse,  his  left  hand  grasping  its  mane.  His  right 
hand  was  raised  aloft,  directing  his  forces.  If  ever  the 
moulds  of  Nature  turned  out  physical  perfection,  she 
realized  her  ideal  in  that  superb  Cheyenne.  He  stood  six 
feet  and  three  inches  in  his  moccasins.  He  was  built  like 
a  giant,  with  a  muscular  symmetry  that  was  artistically 
beautiful.  About  his  naked  body  was  a  broad,  blood-red 
silken  sash,  the  ends  of  which  floated  in  the  wind.  His 
war  bonnet,  with  its  two  short,  curved,  black  buffalo 

271 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

horns,  above  his  brow,  was  a  magnificent  thing  crowning 
his  head  and  falling  behind  him  in  a  sweep  of  heron 
plumes  and  eagle  feathers.  The  Plains  never  saw  a 
grander  warrior,  nor  did  savage  tribe  ever  claim  a  more 
daring  and  able  commander.  He  was  by  inherent  right 
a  ruler.  In  him  was  the  culmination  of  the  intelligent 
prowess  and  courage  and  physical  supremacy  of  the  free 
life  of  the  broad,  unfettered  West. 

On  they  rushed  that  mount  of  eager  warriors.  The 
hills  behind  them  swarmed  with  squaws  and  children. 
Their  shrieks  of  grief  and  anger  and  encouragement  filled 
the  air.  They  were  beholding  the  action  that  down  to 
the  last  of  the  tribe  would  be  recounted  a  victory  to  be 
chanted  in  all  future  years  over  the  graves  of  their  dead, 
and  sung  in  heroic  strain  when  their  braves  went 
forth  to  conquest.  And  so,  with  all  the  power  of  heart 
and  voice,  they  cried  out  from  the  low  hill-tops.  Just  at 
the  brink  of  the  stream  the  leader,  Roman  Nose,  turned 
his  face  a  moment  toward  the  watching  women.  Lifting 
high  his  right  hand  he  waved  them  a  proud  salute.  The 
gesture  was  so  regal,  and  the  man  himself  so  like  a  king 
of  men,  that  I  involuntarily  held  my  breath.  But  the 
set  blood-stained  face  of  the  wounded  man  beside  me 
told  what  that  kingship  meant. 

As  he  faced  the  island  again,  Roman  Nose  rose  up  to 
his  full  height  and  shook  his  clenched  fist  toward  our 
entrenchment.  Then  suddenly  lifting  his  eyes  toward  the 
blue  sky  above  him,  he  uttered  a  war-cry,  unlike  any 
other  cry  I  have  ever  heard.  It  was  so  strong,  so  vehe- 
ment, so  full  of  pleading,  and  yet  so  dominant  in  its 
certainty,  as  if  he  were  invoking  the  gods  of  all  the  tribes 
for  their  aid,  yet  sure  in  his  defiant  soul  that  victory  was 
his  by  right  of  might.  The  unearthly,  blood-chilling  cry 
was  caught  up  by  all  his  command  and  reechoed  by  the 

272 


IN    THE    ARICKAREE    VALLEY 

watchers  on  the  hills  till,  away  and  away  over  the  undu- 
lating plains  it  rolled,  dying  out  in  weird  cadences  in 
the  far-off  spaces  of  the  haze-wreathed  horizon. 

Then  came  the  dash  for  our  island  entrenchment.  As 
the  Indians  entered  the  stream  I  caught  the  sound  of 
a  bugle  note,  the  same  I  had  heard  twice  before.  On 
the  edge  of  the  island  through  a  rift  in  the  dust-cloud, 
I  saw  in  the  front  line  on  the  end  nearest  me  a  horse  a 
little  smaller  than  the  others,  making  its  rider  a  trifle 
lower  than  his  comrades.  And  then  I  caught  one  glimpse 
of  the  rider's  face.  It  was  the  man  whose  bullet  had 
wounded  Morton  —  Jean  Pahusca. 

We  held  back  our  fire  again,  as  in  the  first  attack,  until 
the  foe  was  almost  upon  us.  With  Forsyth's  order, 
"  Now !  now !  "  our  part  of  the  drama  began.  I  marvel 
yet  at  the  power  of  that  return  charge.  Steady,  constant, 
true  to  the  last  shot,  we  swept  back  each  advancing  wave 
of  warriors,  maddened  now  to  maniac  fury.  In  the  very 
moment  of  victory  defeat  was  breaking  the  forces,  mow- 
ing down  the  strongest,  and  spreading  confusion  every-, 
where.  A  thousand  wild  beasts  on  the  hills,  frenzied 
with  torture,  could  not  have  raged  more  than  those  frantic 
Indian  women  and  shrieking  children  watching  the  fray. 

With  us  it  was  the  last  stand.  We  wasted  no  strength 
in  this  grim  crisis ;  each  turn  of  the  hand  counted.  While 
fearless  as  though  he  bore  a  charmed  life,  the  gallant 
savage  commander  dared  death  at  our  hands,  heeding 
no  more  our  rain  of  rifle  balls  than  if  they  had  been  the 
drops  of  a  summer  shower.  Right  on  he  pressed  regard- 
less of  his  fallen  braves.  How  grandly  he  towered  above 
them  in  his  great  strength  and  superb  physique,  a  very 
prince  of  prowess,  the  type  of  leader  in  a  land  where  the 
battle  is  always  to  the  strong.  And  no  shot  of  our  men 
was  able  to  reach  him  until  our  finish  seemed  certain, 
18  273 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

and  the  time-limit  closing  in.  But  down  in  the  thick 
weeds,  under  a  flimsy  rampart  of  soft  sand,  crouched  a 
slender  fair-haired  boy.  Trim  and  pink-cheeked  as  a  girl, 
young  Stillwell  was  matching  his  cool  nerve  and  steady 
marksmanship  against  the  exultant  dominance  of  a  sav- 
age giant.  It  was  David  and  Goliath  played  out  in  the 
Plains  warfare  of  the  Western  continent.  At  the  crucial 
moment  the  scout's  bullet  went  home  with  unerring  aim, 
and  the  one  man  whose  power  counted  as  a  thousand 
warriors  among  his  own  people  received  his  mortal  wound. 
Backward  he  reeled,  and  dead,  or  dying,  he  was  taken 
from  the  field.  Like  one  of  the  anointed  he  was  mourned 
by  his  people,  for  he  had  never  known  fear,  and  on  his 
banners  victory  had  constantly  perched. 

In  the  confusion  over  the  loss  of  their  leader  the  In- 
dians again  divided  about  the  island  and  fell  back  out 
of  range  of  our  fire.  As  the  tide  of  battle  ebbed  out, 
Colonel  Forsyth,  helpless  in  his  sand  pit,  watching  the 
attack,  called  to  his  guide. 

"  Can  they  do  better  than  that,  Grover?  " 

"  I  Ve  been  on  the  Plains  since  I  was  a  boy  and  I  never 
saw  such  a  charge  as  that.  I  think  they  have  done  their 
level  best,"  the  scout  replied. 

"  All  right,  then,  we  are  good  for  them."  How  cheery 
the  Colonel's  voice  was!  It  thrilled  my  spirits  with  its 
courage.  And  we  needed  courage,  for  just  then,  Lieu- 
tenant Beecher  was  stretching  himself  wearily  before  his 
superior  officer,  saying  briefly: 

"  I  have  my  death-wound ;  good-night."  And  like  a 
brave  man  who  had  done  his  best  he  pillowed  his  head 
face  downward  on  his  arms,  and  spoke  not  any  more  on 
earth  forever. 

It  has  all  been  told  in  history  how  that  day  went  by. 
When  evening  fell  upon  that  eternity-long  time,  our  out- 

274 


IN     THE     ARICKAREE     VALLEY 

look  was  full  of  gloom.  Hardly  one-half  of  our  company 
was  able  to  bear  arms.  Our  horses  had  all  been  killed, 
our  supplies  and  hospital  appliances  were  lost.  Our 
wounds  were  undressed;  our  surgeon  was  slowly  dying; 
our  commander  was  helpless,  and  his  lieutenant  dead. 
We  had  been  all  day  without  food  or  water.  We  were 
prisoners  on  this  island,  and  every  man  of  us  had  half  a 
hundred  jailers,  each  one  a  fiend  in  the  high  art  of  human 
torture. 

I  learned  here  how  brave  and  resourceful  men  can  be 
in  the  face  of  disaster.  One  of  our  number  had  already 
begun  to  dig  a  shallow  well.  It  was  a  muddy  drink,  but, 
God  be  praised,  it  was  water!  Our  supper  was  a  steak 
cut  from  a  slaughtered  horse,  but  we  did  not  complain. 
We  gathered  round  our  wounded  commander  and  did 
what  we  could  for  each  other,  and  no  man  thought  of 
himself  first.  Our  dead  were  laid  in  shallow  graves,  with- 
out a  prayer.  There  was  no  time  here  for  the  ceremonies 
of  peace;  and  some  of  the  men,  before  they  went  out 
into  the  Unknown  that  night,  sent  their  last  messages  to 
their  friends,  if  we  should  ever  be-  able  to  reach  home 
again. 

At  nightfall  came  a  gentle  shower.  We  held  out  our 
hands  to  it,  and  bathed  our  fevered  faces.  It  was  very 
dark  and  we  must  make  the  most  of  every  hour.  The 
Indians  do  not  fight  by  night,  but  the  morrow  might  bring 
its  tale  of  battles.  So  we  digged,  and  shaped  our  strong- 
hold, and  told  over  our  resources,  and  planned  our  de- 
fences, and  all  the  time  hunger  and  suffering  and  sorrow 
and  peril  stalked  about  with  us.  All  night  the  Indians 
gathered  up  their  dead,  and  all  night  they  chanted  their 
weird,  blood-chilling  death-songs,  while  the  lamentations 
of  the  squaws  through  that  dreadful  night  filled  all  the 
long  hours  with  hideous  mourning  unlike  any  other 

275 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

earthly  discord.  But  the  darkness  folded  us  in,  and  the 
blessed  rain  fell  softly  on  §11  alike,  on  skilful  guide,  and 
busy  soldier,  on  the  wounded  lying  helpless  in  their  beds 
of  sand,  on  the  newly  made  graves  of  those  for  whom  life's 
fitful  fever  was  ended.  And  above  all,  the  loving  Father, 
whose  arm  is  never  shortened  that  He  cannot  save,  gave 
His  angels  charge  over  us  to  keep  us  in  all  our  ways. 


276 


CHAPTER    XVIII 
THE    SUNLIGHT     ON    OLD     GLORY 

The  little  green  tent  is  made  of  sod, 
And  it  is  not  long,  and  it  is  not  broad, 

But  the  soldiers  have  lots  of  room. 
And  the  sod  is  a  part  of  the  land  they  saved, 
When  the  flag  of  the  enemy  darkly  waved, 

A  symbol  of  dole  and  gloom. 

—  WALT  MASON. 

{£T3  ARONET,  we  must  have  that  spade  we  left  over 
XD  there  this  morning.  Are  you  the  man  to  get  it?  " 
Sharp  'Grover  said  to  me  just  after  dusk.  "  We  Ve  got 
to  have  water  or  die,  and  Burke  here  can't  dig  a  well  with 
his  toe  nails,  though  he  can  come  about  as  near  to  it  as 
anybody."  Burke  was  an  industrious  Irishman  who  had 
already  found  water  for  us.  "  And  then  we  must  take 
care  of  these."  He  motioned  toward  a  still  form  at  my 
feet,  and  his  tone  was  reverent. 

"  Over  there  "  was  the  camp  ground  of  the  night  before. 
It  had  been  trampled  by  hundreds  of  feet.  Our  camp  was 
small,  and  finding  the  spade  by  day  might  be  easy  enough. 
To  grope  in  the  dark  and  danger  was  another  matter. 
Twenty-four  hours  before,  I  would  not  have  dared  to  try. 
Nothing  counted  with  me  now.  I  had  just  risen  from 
the  stiffening  body  of  a  comrade  whom  I  had  been  trying 
to  compose  for  his  final  rest.  I  had  no  more  sentiment 
for  myself  than  I  had  for  him.  My  time  might  come  at 
any  moment. 

277 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  '11  go,"  I  answered  the  scout,  and  I  felt  of 
my  revolvers;  my  own  and  the  one  I  had  taken  from  the 
man  who  lay  at  my  feet. 

"  Well,  take  no  foolish  chances.  Come  back  if  the  way 
is  blocked,  but  get  the  spade  if  you  can.  Take  your  time. 
You  'd  better  wait  an  hour  than  be  dead  in  a  minute,"  and 
he  turned  to  the  next  work  before  him. 

He  was  guide,  commander,  and  lieutenant  all  in  one, 
and  his  duties  were  many.  I  slipped  out  in  the  danger- 
filled  shadows  toward  our  camping  place  of  the  night  be- 
fore. Every  step  was  full  of  peril.  The  Indians  had  no 
notion  of  letting  us  slip  through  their  fingers  in  the  dark. 
Added  to  their  day's  defeats,  we  had  slain  their  greatest 
warrior,  and  they  would  have  perished  by  inches  rather 
than  let  us  escape  now.  So  our  island  was  guarded  on 
every  side.  The  black  shadowed  Plains  were  crossed 
and  re-crossed  by  the  braves  silently  gathering  in  their 
lost  ones  for  burial.  My  scalp  would  have  been  a  joy  to 
them  who  had  as  yet  no  human  trophy  to  gloat  over. 
Surely  a  spade  was  never  so  valuable  before.  My  sense 
of  direction  is  fair  and  to  my  great  relief  I  found  that 
precious  implement  marvellously  soon,  but  the  creek  lay 
between  me  and  the  island.  Just  at  its  bank  I  was  com- 
pelled to  drop  into  a  clump  of  weeds  as  three  forms 
crept  near  me  and  straightened  themselves  up  in  the 
gloom.  They  were  speaking  in  low  tones,  and  as  they 
stood  upright  I  caught  their  words. 

"  You  made  that  bugle  talk,  anyhow,  Dodd." 

So  Dodd  was  the  renegade  whom  I  had  heard  three 
times  in  the  conflict.  My  vision  at  the  gorge  was  not 
the  insanity  of  the  Plains,  after  all.  I  was  listening  rav- 
enously now.  The  man  who  had  spoken  stood  nearest 
me.  There  was  a  certain  softness  of  accent  and  a  familiar 
tone  in  his  speech.  As  he  turned  toward  the  other  two, 

278 


THE    SUNLIGHT    ON    OLD     GLORY 

even  in  the  dim  light,  the  outline  of  his  form  and  the 
set  of  his  uncovered  head  I  knew. 

"  That 's  Le  Claire,  as  true  as  heaven,  all  but  the  voice," 
I  said  to  myself.  "  But  I  '11  never  believe  that  metallic 
ring  is  the  priest's.  It  is  Le  Claire  turned  renegade,  too, 
or  it 's  a  man  on  a  pattern  so  like  him,  they  could  n't  tell 
themselves  apart." 

I  recalled  all  the  gentleness  and  manliness  of  the  Fa- 
ther. Never  an  act  of  his  was  cruel,  or  selfish,  or  decep- 
tive. True  to  his  principles,  he  had  warned  us  again  and 
again  not  to  trust  Jean.  And  yet  he  had  always  seemed 
to  protect  the  boy,  always  knew  his  comings  and  goings, 
and  the  two  had  grown  yearly  to  resemble  each  other 
more  and  more  in  face  and  form  and  gesture.  Was  Le 
Claire  a  villain  in  holy  guise? 

I  did  not  meditate  long,  for  the  third  man  spoke.  Oh, 
the  "  good  Indian "  !  Never  could  he  conceal  his  voice 
from  me. 

"  Now,  what  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  tell  them  all  which 
one  he  is.  I  Ve  just  been  clear  around  their  hole  in  the 
sand.  I  could  have  hit  my  choice  of  the  lot.  But  he 
was  n't  there." 

No,  I  had  just  stepped  out  after  the  spade. 

"  If  he  had  been,  I  'd  have  shot  him  right  then,  no 
matter  what  come  next.  But  I  don't  want  him  shot. 
He 's  mine.  Now  tell  every  brave  to  leave  him  to  me, 
the  big  one,  nearly  as  big  as  Roman  Nose,  whiter  than 
the  others,  because  he 's  not  been  out  here  long.  But 
he's  no  coward.  The  one  with  thick  dark  curly  hair; 
it  would  make  a  beautiful  scalp.  But  I  want  him." 

"What  will  you  do  with  him?"  the  man  nearest  to 
me  queried. 

"  Round  the  bend  below  the  gorge  the  Arickaree  runs 
over  a  little  strip  of  gravel  with  a  ripple  that  sounds  just 

279 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

like  the  Neosho  above  the  Deep  Hole.  I  '11  stake  him 
out  there  where  he  can  hear  it  and  think  of  home  until 
he  dies.  And  before  I  leave  him  I  've  got  a  letter  to  read 
to  him.  It'll  help  to  keep  Springvale  in  his  mind  if 
the  water  fails.  I  've  promised  him  what  to  expect  when 
he  comes  into  my  country." 

"  Do  it,"  the  smallest  of  the  three  spoke  up.  "  Do  it. 
It  '11  pay  him  for  setting  Bud  Anderson  on  me  and  nearly 
killing  me  in  the  alley  back  of  the  courthouse  the  night 
we  were  going  to  burn  up  Springvale.  I  was  making 
for  the  courthouse  to  get  the  papers  to  burn  sure.  I'd 
got  the  key  and  could  have  got  them  easy  —  and  there  's 
some  needed  burning  specially  —  when  that  lispin'  tow- 
head  caught  my  arm  and  gave  my  head  such  a  cut  that 
I  '11  always  carry  the  scar,  and  twisted  my  wrist  so  I  Ve 
never  been  able  to  lift  anything  heavier  than  an  artillery 
bugle  since.  Nobody  ever  knew  it  back  there  but  Maple- 
son  and  Conlow  and  Judson.  Funny  nobody  ever  guessed 
Judson's  part  in  that  thing  except  his  wife,  and  she  kept 
it  to  herself  and  broke  her  heart  and  died.  Everybody 
else  said  he  was  water-bound  away  from  home.  He 
was  n't  twenty  feet  from  his  own  house  when  the  Whately 
girl  come  out.  He  was  helpin'  Jean  then.  Thought  her 
mother  'd  be  killed,  and  Whately  'd  never  get  home  alive 
—  as  he  did  n't  — and  he  'd  get  the  whole  store ;  greediest 
man  on  earth  for  money.  He 's  got  the  store  anyhow, 
now,  and  he  's  going  to  marry  the  girl  he  was  helpin'  Jean 
to  take  out  of  his  way.  That  store  never  would  have 
been  burnt  that  night.  I  wish  Jean  had  got  her,  though. 
Then  I  'd  turned  things  against  Tell  Mapleson  and  run 
him  out  of  town  instead  of  his  driving  me  from  Spring- 
vale.  Tell  played  a  double  game  damned  well.  I  'm  out- 
lawed and  he 's  gettin*  richer  every  day  at  home." 

So  spoke  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dodd,  pastor  of  the  Methodist 

280 


THE     SUNLIGHT     ON     OLD     GLORY 

Church  South.  It  may  be  I  needed  the  discipline  of  that 
day's  fighting  to  hold  me  motionless  and  silent  in  the 
clump  of  grass  beside  these  three  men. 

"  Well,  let 's  get  up  there  and  watch  the  fool  women 
cry  for  their  men."  It  was  none  other  than  Father  Le 
Claire's  form  before  me,  but  this  man's  voice  was 
never  that  soft  French  tone  of  the  good  man's  — 
low  and  musical,  matching  his  kindly  eyes  and 
sweet  smile.  As  the  three  slipped  away  I  did  the 
only  foolish  act  of  mine  in  the  whole  campaign: 
I  rose  from  my  hiding  place,  shouldered  that  spade,  and 
stalked  straight  down  the  bank,  across  the  creek,  and  up 
to  our  works  in  the  centre  of  the  island  as  upright  and 
free  as  if  I  were  walking  up  Cliff  Street  to  Judge  Baro- 
net's front  door.  Jean's  words  had  put  into  me  just 
what  I  needed  —  not  acceptance  of  the  inevitable,  but  a 
power  of  resistance,  the  indomitable  spirit  that  overcomes. 

History  is  stranger  than  fiction,  and  the  story  of  the 
Kansas  frontier  is  more  tragical  than  all  the  Wild  West 
yellow-backed  novels  ever  turned  off  the  press.  To  me 
this  campaign  of  the  Arickaree  has  always  read  like  a 
piece  of  bloody  drama,  so  terrible  in  its  reality,  it  puts 
the  imagination  out  of  service. 

We  had  only  one  chance  for  deliverance,  we  must  get 
the  tidings  of  our  dreadful  plight  to  Fort  Wallace,  a  hun- 
dred miles  away.  Jack  Stillwell  and  another  brave  scout 
were  chosen  for  the  dangerous  task.  At  midnight  they 
left  us,  moving  cautiously  away  into  the  black  blank 
space  toward  the  southwest,  and  making  a  wide  detour 
from  their  real  line  of  direction.  The  Indians  were  on 
the  alert,  and  a  man  must  walk  as  noiselessly  as  a  pan- 
ther to  slip  between  their  guards. 

The  scouts  wore  blankets  to  resemble  the  Indians  more 
closely  in  the  shadows  of  the  night.  They  made  moc- 

281 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

casins  out  of  boot  tops,  that  their  footprints  might  tell 
no  story.  In  sandy  places  they  even  walked  backward 
that  they  should  leave  no  tell-tale  trail  out  of  the  valley. 

Dawn  found  them  only  three  miles  away  from  their 
starting  place.  A  hollow  bank  overhung  with  long,  dry 
grasses,  and  fronted  with  rank  sunflowers,  gave  them  a 
place  of  concealment  through  the  daylight  hours.  Again 
on  the  second  night  they  hurried  cautiously  forward. 
The  second  morning  they  were  near  an  Indian  village. 
Their  only  retreat  was  in  the  tall  growth  of  a  low,  marshy 
place.  Here  they  crouched  through  another  long  day. 
The  unsuspecting  squaws,  hunting  fuel,  tramped  the 
grasses  dangerously  near  to  them,  but  a  merciful  Provi- 
dence guarded  their  hiding-place. 

On  the  third  night  they  pushed  forward  more  boldly, 
hoping  that  the  next  day  they  need  not  waste  the  precious 
hours  in  concealment.  In  the  early  morning  they  saw 
coming  down  over  the  prairie  the  first  guard  of  a  Chey- 
enne village  moving  southward  across  their  path.  The 
Plains  were  flat  and  covertless.  No  tall  grass,  nor  friendly 
bank,  nor  bush,  nor  hollow  of  ground  was  there  to 
cover  them  from  their  enemies.  But  out  before  them  lay 
the  rotting  carcass  of  an  old  buffalo.  Its  hide  still  hung 
about  its  bones.  And  inside  the  narrow  shelter  of  this 
carcass  the  two  concealed  themselves  while  a  whole  vil- 
lage passed  near  them  trailing  off  toward  the  south. 

Insufficient  food,  lack  of  sleep,  and  poisonous  water 
from  the  buffalo  wallows  brought  nausea  and  weakness 
to  the  faithful  men  making  their  way  across  the  hostile 
land  to  bring  help  to  us  in  our  dire  extremity.  It  is  all 
recorded  in  history  how  these  two  men  fared  in  that  haz- 
ardous undertaking.  No  hundred  miles  of  sandy  plain 
was  ever  more  fraught  with  peril;  and  yet  these  two 
pressed  on  with  that  fearless  and  indomitable  courage 

282 


THE     SUNLIGHT     ON     OLD     GLORY 

that  has  characterized  the  Saxon  people  on  every  field 
of  conquest. 

Meanwhile  day  crept  over  the  eastern  horizon,  and  the 
cold  chill  of  the  shadows  gave  place  to  the  burning  glare 
of  the  September  sun.  Hot  and  withering  it  beat  down 
upon  us  and  upon  the  unburied  dead  that  lay  all  about  us. 
The  braves  that  had  fallen  in  the  strife  strewed  the 
island's  edges.  Their  blood  lay  dark  on  the  sandy  shoals 
of  the  stream  and  stained  to  duller  brown  the  trampled 
grasses.  Daylight  brought  the  renewal  of  the  treacherous 
sharpshooting.  The  enemy  closed  in  about  us  and  from 
their  points  of  vantage  their  deadly  arrows  and  bullets 
were  hurled  upon  our  low  wall  of  defence.  And  so  the 
unequal  struggle  continued.  Ours  was  henceforth  an 
ambush  fight.  The  redskins  did  not  attack  us  in  open 
charge  again,  and  we  durst  not  go  out  to  meet  them. 
And  so  the  thing  became  a  game  of  endurance  with  us, 
a  slow  wearing  away  of  ammunition  and  food,  a  growing 
fever  from  weakness  and  loss  of  blood,  a  festering  of 
wounds,  the  ebbing  out  of  strength  and  hope;  while  pu- 
trid mule  meat  and  muddy  water,  the  sickening  stench 
from  naked  bloated  bodies  under  the  blazing  heat  of  day, 
the  long,  long  hours  of  watching  for  deliverance  that  came 
not,  and  the  certainty  of  the  fate  awaiting  us  at  last  if  res- 
cue failed  us  —  these  things  marked  the  hours  and  made 
them  all  alike.  As  to  the  Indians,  the  passing  of  Roman 
Nose  had  broken  their  fighting  spirit;  and  now  it  was  a 
mere  matter  of  letting  us  run  to  the  end  of  our  tether  and 
then  — well,  Jean  had  hinted  what  would  happen. 

On  the  third  night  two  more  scouts  left  us.  It  seemed 
an  eternity  since  Stillwell  and  his  comrade  had  started 
from  the  camp.  We  felt  sure  that  they  must  have  fallen 
by  the  way,  and  the  second  attempt  was  doubly  hazard- 
ous. The  two  who  volunteered  were  quiet  men.  They 

283 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

knew  what  the  task  implied,  and  they  bent  to  it  like  men 
who  can  pay  on  demand  the  price  of  sacrifice.  Their 
names  were  Donovan  and  Pliley,  recorded  in  the  military 
roster  as  private  scouts,  but  the  titles  they  bear  in  the 
memory  of  every  man  who  sat  in  that  grim  council  on  that 
night,  has  a  grander  sound  than  the  written  records  de- 
clare. 

"  Boys,"  Forsyth  said,  lifting  himself  on  his  elbow 
where  he  lay  in  his  sand  bed,  "  this  is  the  last  chance.  If 
you  can  get  to  the  fort  and  send  us  help  we  can  hold  out 
a  while.  But  it  must  come  quickly.  You  know  what  it 
means  for  you  to  try,  and  for  us,  if  you  succeed." 

The  two  men  nodded  assent,  then  girding  on  their 
equipments,  they  gave  us  their  last  messages  to  be  re- 
peated if  deliverance  ever  came  to  us  and  they  were  never 
heard  of  again.  We  were  getting  accustomed  to  this  now, 
for  Death  stalked  beside  us  every  hour.  They  said  a 
brief  good-bye  and  slipped  out  from  us  into  the  dangerous 
dark  on  their  chosen  task.  Then  the  chill  of  the  night, 
with  its  uncertainty  and  gloom,  with  its  ominous  silences 
broken  only  by  the  howl  of  the  gray  wolves,  who  closed 
in  about  us  and  set  up  their  hunger  wails  beyond  the 
reach  of  our  bullets;  and  the  heat  of  the  day  with  its 
peril  of  arrow  and  rifle-ball  filled  the  long  hours.  Hunger 
was  a  terror  now.  Our  meat  was  gone  save  a  few  de- 
cayed portions  which  we  could  barely  swallow  after  we 
had  sprinkled  them  over  with  gunpowder.  For  the  stom- 
ach refused  it  even  in  starvation.  Dreams  of  banquets 
tortured  our  short,  troubled  sleep,  and  the  waking  was 
a  horror.  A  luckless  little  coyote  wandered  one  day  too 
near  our  fold.  We  ate  his  flesh  and  boiled  his  bones  for 
soup.  And  one  day  a  daring  soldier  slipped  out  from  our 
sand  pit  in  search  of  food  —  anything  —  to  eat  in  place  of 
that  rotting  horseflesh.  In  the  bushes  at  the  end  of  the 

284 


THE     SUNLIGHT     ON     OLD     GLORY 

island,  he  found  a  few  wild  plums.  Oh,  food  of  the  gods 
was  that  portion  of  stewed  plums  carefully  doled  out  to 
each  of  us. 

Six  days  went  by.  I  do  not  know  on  which  one  the 
Sabbath  fell,  for  God  has  no  holy  day  in  the  Plains  war- 
fare. Six  days,  and  no  aid  had  come  from  Fort  Wallace. 
That  our  scouts  had  failed,  and  our  fate  was  decreed,  was 
now  the  settled  conclusion  in  every  mind. 

On  the  evening  of  this  sixth  day  our  leader  called  us 
about  him.  How  gray  and  drawn  his  face  looked  in  the 
shadowy  gray  light,  but  his  eyes  were  clear  and  his  voice 
steady. 

"  Boys,  we  've  got  to  the  end  of  our  rope,  now.  Over 
there,"  pointing  to  the  low  hills,  "  the  Indian  wolves  are 
waiting  for  us.  It 's  the  hazard  of  war ;  that 's  all.  But 
we  need  n't  all  be  sacrificed.  You,  who  are  n't  wounded, 
can't  help  us  who  are.  You  have  nothing  here  to  make 
our  suffering  less.  To  stay  here  means  —  you  all  know 
what.  Now  the  men  who  can  go  must  leave  us  to  what 's 
coming.  I  feel  sure  now  that  you  can  get  through  to- 
gether somehow,  for  the  tribes  are  scattering.  It  is  only 
the  remnant  left  over  there  to  burn  us  out  at  last.  There 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  stay  here  and  die.  Make 
your  dash  for  escape  together  to-night,  and  save  your 
lives  if  you  can.  And  " —  his  voice  was  brave  and  full 
of  cheer  — "  I  believe  you  can." 

Then  a  silence  fell.  There  were  two  dozen  of  us  gaunt, 
hungry  men,  haggard  from  lack  of  sleep  and  the  fearful 
tax  on  mind  and  body  that  tested  human  endurance  to 
the  limit  —  two  dozen,  to  whom  escape  was  not  impossi- 
ble now,  though  every  foot  of  the  way  was  dangerous. 
Life  is  sweet,  and  hope  is  imperishable.  We  looked  into 
one  another's  face  grimly,  for  the  crisis  of  a  lifetime  was 
upon  us.  Beside  me  lay  Morton.  The  handkerchief  he 

285 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

had  bound  about  his  head  in  the  first  hour  of  battle  had 
not  once  been  removed.  There  was  no  other  handker- 
chief to  take  its  place. 

"  Go,  Baronet,"  he  said  to  me.  "  Tell  your  father,  if 
you  see  him  again,  that  I  remembered  Whately  and  how 
he  went  down  at  Chattanooga." 

His  voice  was  low  and  firm  and  yet  he  knew  what  was 
awaiting  him.  Oh!  men  walked  on  red-hot  ploughshares 
in  the  days  of  the  winning  of  the  West. 

Sharp  Grover  was  sitting  beside  Forsyth.  In  the  si- 
lence of  the  council  the  guide  turned  his  eyes  toward  each 
of  us.  Then,  clenching  his  gaunt,  knotted  hands  with 
a  grip  of  steel,  he  said  in  a  low,  measured  voice: 

"  It 's  no  use  asking  us,  General.  We  have  fought  to- 
gether, and,  by  Heaven,  we  '11  die  together." 

In  the  great  crises  of  life  the  only  joy  is  the  joy  of  self- 
sacrifice.  Every  man  of  us  breathed  freer,  and  we  were 
happier  now  than  we  had  been  at  any  time  since  the  con- 
flict began.  And  so  another  twenty-four  hours,  and  still 
another  twenty-four  went  by. 

The  sun  came  up  and  the  sun  went  down, 
And  day  and  night  were  the  same  as  one. 

And  any  evil  chance  seemed  better  than  this  slow  drag- 
ging out  of  misery-laden  time. 

"  Nature  meant  me  to  defend  the  weak  and  helpless. 
The  West  needs  me,"  I  had  said  to  my  father.  And  now  I 
had  given  it  my  best.  A  slow  fever  was  creeping  upon 
me,  and  weariness  of  body  was  greater  than  pain  and 
hunger.  Death  would  be  a  welcome  thing  now  that  hope 
seemed  dead.  I  thought  of  O'mie,  bound  hand  and  foot 
in  the  Hermit's  Cave,  and  like  him,  I  wished  that  I  might 
go  quickly  if  I  must  go.  For  back  of  my  stolid  mental 

286 


THE    SUNLIGHT     ON     OLD     GLORY 

state  was  a  frenzied  desire  to  outwit  Jean  Pahusca,  who 
was  biding  his  time,  and  keeping  a  surer  watch  on  our 
poor  battle-wrecked,  starving  force  than  any  other  In- 
dian in  the  horde  that  kept  us  imprisoned. 

The  sunrise  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  September  was  a 
dream  of  beauty  on  the  Colorado  Plains.  I  sat  with  my 
face  to  the  eastward  and  saw  the  whole  pageantry  of 
morning  sweep  up  in  a  splendor  of  color  through  stretches 
of  far  limitless  distances.  Oh!  it  was  gorgeous,  with 
a  glory  fresh  from  the  hand  of  the  Infinite  God,  whose  is 
the  earth  and  the  seas.  Mechanically  I  thought  of  the 
sunrise  beyond  the  Neosho  Valley,  but  nothing  there  could 
be  half  so  magnificent  as  this.  And  as  I  looked,  the 
thought  grew  firmer  that  this  sublimity  had  been  poured 
out  for  me  for  the  last  time,  and  I  gazed  at  the  face  of 
the  morning  as  we  look  at  the  face  awaiting  the  coffin  lid. 

And  even  as  the  thought  clinched  itself  upon  me  came 
the  sentinel's  cry  of  "  Indians !  Indians ! " 

We  grasped  our  weapons  at  the  shrill  warning.  It  was 
the  death-grip  now.  We  knew  as  surely  as  we  stood 
there  that  we  could  not  resist  this  last  attack.  The  red- 
skins must  have  saved  themselves  for  this  final  blow, 
when  resistance  on  our  part  was  a  feeble  mockery.  The 
hills  to  the  northward  were  black  with  the  approaching 
force,  but  we  were  determined  to  make  our  last  stand 
heroically,  and  to  sell  our  lives  as  dearly  as  possible.  As 
with  a  grim  last  measure  of  courage  we  waited,  Sharp 
Grover,  who  stood  motionless,  alert,  with  arms  ready, 
suddenly  threw  his  rifle  high  in  air,  and  with  a  shout 
that  rose  to  heaven,  he  cried  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy: 

"  By  the  God  above  us,  it 's  an  ambulance !  " 

To  us  for  whom  the  frenzied  shrieks  of  the  squaws,  the 
fiendish  yells  of  the  savage  warriors,  and  the  weird,  un- 
earthly wailing  for  the  dead  were  the  only  cries  that  had 

287 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

resounded  above  the  Plains  these  many  days,  this  shout 
from  Grover  was  like  the  music  of  heaven.  A  darkness 
came  before  me,  and  my  strength  seemed  momentarily 
to  go  from  me.  It  was  but  a  moment,  and  then  I  opened 
my  eyes  to  the  sublimest  sight  it  is  given  to  the  Anglo- 
American  to  look  upon. 

Down  from  the  low  bluffs  there  poured  a  broad  surge  of 
cavalry,  in  perfect  order,  riding  like  the  wind,  the  swift, 
steady  hoof-beats  of  their  horses  marking  a  rhythmic 
measure  that  trembled  along  the  ground  in  musical  vibra- 
tion, while  overhead  —  oh,  the  grandeur  of  God's  gracious 
dawn  fell  never  on  a  thing  more  beautiful  —  swept  out  by 
the  free  winds  of  heaven  to  its  full  length,  and  gleaming 
in  the  sunlight,  Old  Glory  rose  and  fell  in  rippling  waves 
of  splendor. 

On  they  came,  the  approaching  force,  in  a  mad  rush  to 
reach  us.  And  we  who  had  waited  for  the  superb  charge 
of  Roman  Nose  and  his  savage  warriors,  as  we  wait  for 
death,  saw  now  this  coming  in  of  life,  and  the  regiment 
of  the  unconquerable  people. 

We  threw  restraint  to  the  winds  and  shouted  and 
danced  and  hugged  each  other,  while  we  laughed  and 
cried  in  a  very  transport  of  joy. 

It  was  Colonel  Carpenter  and  his  colored  cavalry  who 
had  made  a  dash  across  the  country  rushing  to  our  rescue. 
Beside  the  Colonel  at  their  head,  rode  Donovan  the  scout, 
whom  we  had  accounted  as  dead.  It  was  his  unerring 
eye  that  had  guided  this  command,  never  varying  from 
the  straight  line  toward  our  danger-girt  entrenchment 
on  the  Arickaree. 

Before  Carpenter's  approaching  cavalry  the  Indians 
fled  for  their  lives,  and  they  who  a  few  hours  hence  would 
have  been  swinging  bloody  tomahawks  above  our  heads 
were  now  scurrying  to  their  hiding-places  far  away. 

288 


Like  the  passing  of  a  hurricane,  horses,  mules,  men, 
all  dashed  toward  the  place 


THE    SUNLIGHT    ON     OLD     GLORY 

Never  tenderer  hands  cared  for  the  wounded,  and  never 
were  bath  and  bandage  and  food  and  drink  more  wel- 
come. Our  command  was  shifted  to  a  clean  spot  where 
no  stench  of  putrid  flesh  could  reach  us.  Rest  and  care, 
such  as  a  camp  on  the  Plains  can  offer,  was  ours  luxuri- 
ously; and  hardtack  and  coffee,  food  for  the  angels,  we 
had  that  day,  to  our  intense  satisfaction.  Life  was  ours 
once  more,  and  hope,  and  home,  and  civilization.  Oh, 
could  it  be  true,  we  asked  ourselves,  so  long  had  we 
stood  face  to  face  with  Death. 

The  import  of  this  struggle  on  the  Arickaree  was  far 
greater  than  we  dreamed  of  then.  We  had  gone  out  to 
meet  a  few  foemen.  What  we  really  had  to  battle  with 
was  the  fighting  strength  of  the  northern  Cheyenne 
and  Sioux  tribes.  Long  afterwards  it  came  to  us  what 
this  victory  meant.  The  broad  trail  we  had  eagerly  fol- 
lowed up  the  Arickaree  fork  of  the  Republican  River  had 
been  made  by  bands  on  bands  of  Plains  Indians  mobil- 
izing only  a  little  to  the  westward,  gathering  for  a  deadly 
purpose.  At  the  full  of  the  moon  the  whole  fighting 
force,  two  thousand  strong,  was  to  make  a  terrible  raid, 
spreading  out  on  either  side  of  the  Republican  River, 
reaching  southward  as  far  as  the  Saline  Valley  and  north- 
ward to  the  Platte,  and  pushing  eastward  till  the  older 
settlements  turned  them  back.  They  were  determined 
to  leave  nothing  behind  them  but  death  and  desolation. 
Their  numbers  and  leadership,  with  the  defenceless  con- 
dition of  the  Plains  settlers,  give  broad  suggestion  of 
what  that  raid  would  have  done  for  Kansas.  Our  vic- 
tory on  the  Arickaree  broke  up  that  combination  of 
Indian  forces,  for  all  future  time.  It  was  for  such  an 
unknown  purpose,  and  against  such  unguessed  odds,  that 
fifty  of  us  led  by  the  God  of  all  battle  lines,  had  gone  out 
to  fight.  We  had  met  and  vanquished  a  foe  two  hun- 
19  289 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

dred  times  our  number,  aye,  crippled  its  power  for  all 
future  years.  We  were  lifting  the  fetters  from  the  fron- 
tier; we  were  planting  the  standards  westward,  westward. 
In  the  history  of  the  Plains  warfare  this  fight  on  the 
Arickaree,  though  not  the  last  stroke,  was  one  of  the  de- 
cisive struggles  in  breaking  the  savage  sovereignty,  a 
sovereignty  whose  wilderness  demesne  to-day  is  a  land 
of  fruit  and  meadow  and  waving  grain,  of  peaceful  homes 
and  wealth  and  honor. 

It  was  impossible  for  our  wounded  comrades  to  begin 
the  journey  to  Fort  Wallace  on  that  day.  When  evening 
came,  the  camp  settled  down  to  quiet  and  security:  the 
horses  fed  at  their  rope  tethers,  the  fires  smouldered  away 
to  gray  ashes,  the  sun  swung  down  behind  the  horizon 
bar,  the  gold  and  scarlet  of  evening  changed  to  deeper 
hues  and  the  long,  purple  twilight  was  on  the  silent  Col- 
orado Plains.  Over  by  the  Arickaree  the  cavalry  men 
lounged  lazily  in  groups.  As  the  shades  of  evening  gath- 
ered, the  soldiers  began  to  sing.  Softly  at  first,  but  richer, 
fuller,  sweeter  their  voices  rose  and  fell  with  that  cadence 
and  melody  only  the  negro  voice  can  compass.  And  their 
song,  pulsing  out  across  the  undulating  valley  wrapped 
in  the  twilight  peace,  made  a  harmony  so  wonderfully 
tender  that  we  who  had  dared  danger  for  days  unflinch- 
ingly now  turned  our  faces  to  the  shadows  to  hide  our 
tears. 

We  are  tenting  to-night  on  the  old  camp  ground, 

Give  us  a  song  to  cheer 
Our  weary  hearts,  a  song  of  home 

And  friends  we  love  so  dear. 
Many  are  the  hearts  that  are  weary  to-night, 

Wishing  for  this  war  to  cease, 
Many  are  the  hearts  looking  for  the  right 

To  see  the  dawn  of  peace. 

290 


THE    SUNLIGHT     ON     OLD     GLORY 

So  the  cavalry  men  sang,  and  we  listened  to  their  singing 
with  hearts  stirred  to  their  depths.  And  then  with  prayers 
of  thankfulness  for  our  deliverance,  we  went  to  sleep. 
And  over  on  the  little  island,  under  the  shallow  sands, 
the  men  who  had  fallen  beside  us  lay  with  patient,  folded 
hands  waiting  beside  the  Arickaree  waters  till  the  last 
reveille  shall  sound  for  them  and  they  enter  the  kingdom 
of  Eternal  Peace. 


291 


CHAPTER    XIX 
A     MAN'S     BUSINESS 

Mankind  was  my  business;  the  common  welfare  was  my  busi- 
ness; charity,  mercy,  forbearance,  and  benevolence  were  all  my 
business;  the  dealings  of  my  trade  were  but  a  drop  of  water  in  the 
comprehensive  ocean  of  my  business. 

—  DICKENS. 

EVERY  little  community  has  its  customs  peculiar  to 
itself.  With  the  people  of  Springvale  the  general 
visiting-time  was  on  Sunday  between  the  afternoon  Sab- 
bath-school and  the  evening  service.  The  dishes  that  were 
prepared  on  Saturday  for  the  next  day's  supper  excelled 
the  warm  Sunday  dinner. 

We  come  to  know  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  folks  that 
fill  up  a  little  town,  and  when  we  get  into  the  larger  city 
we  miss  them  oftener  than  we  have  the  courage  to  say. 
Unselfishness  and  integrity  and  stalwart  principles  of 
right  are  not  confined  to  the  higher  circles  of  society.  A 
man  may  be  hungry  for  friends  on  the  crest  of  his  popu- 
larity ;  he  may  long  for  the  strong  right  hand  of  Christian 
fellowship  in  the  centre  of  a  brotherhood  of  churchmen. 
Cam  Gentry  and  his  good  wife  are  among  those  whom 
in  all  my  busy  years  of  wide  acquaintance  with  people 
of  all  ranks  I  account  as  genuine  stuff.  They  were  only 
common  clay,  generous,  unselfish,  clean  of  thought  and 
act.  Uneducated,  with  no  high  ideals,  they  gauged  their 
way  by  the  golden  rule,  and  made  the  most  of  their  time. 
A  journey  to  Topeka  was  their  "  trip  abroad  "  ;  beyond 

292 


A     MAN'S     BUSINESS 

the  newspapers  they  read  little  except  the  Bible;  and 
they  built  their  faith  on  the  Presbyterian  Church  and  the 
Republican  party.  But  the  cosy  lighted  tavern  on  winter 
nights,  and  its  clean,  cool  halls  and  resting-places  in  the 
summer  heat,  are  still  a  green  spot  in  the  memory  of 
many  a  traveller.  Transients  and  regulars  at  the  Cam- 
bridge House  delighted  in  this  Sabbath  evening  spread. 

"  Land  knows,"  Dollie  Gentry  used  to  declare,  "  if  ever 
a  body  feels  lonesome  it 's  on  Sunday  afternoon  between 
Sunday-school  and  evenin'  service.  Why,  the  blues  can 
get  you  then,  when  they  'd  Stan*  no  show  ary  other  day 
er  hour  in  the  week.  An*  it  Stan's  to  reason  a  man,  er 
woman,  either,  is  livin'  in  a  hotel  because  they  ain't  got 
no  home  ner  nobody  to  make  'em  feel  glad  to  see  'em.  If 
they  're  goin'  to  patronize  the  Cambridge  House  they  're 
goin'  to  get  the  best  that 's  comin'  to  'em  right  then." 

So  the  old  dining-room  was  a  joy  at  this  time  of  the 
week,  with  all  that  a  good  cook  can  make  attractive  to 
the  appetite. 

Mary  Gentry,  sweet-tempered  and  credulous  as  in  her 
childhood,  grew  up  into  a  home-lover.  We  all  wondered 
why  John  Anderson,  who  was  studying  medicine,  should 
fancy  Mary,  plain  good  girl  that  she  was.  John  had  been 
a  bashful  boy  and  a  hard  student  whom  the  girls  failed 
to  interest.  But  the  home  Mary  made  for  him  later,  and 
her  two  sons  that  grew  up  in  it,  are  justification  of  his 
choice  of  wife.  The  two  boys  are  men  now,  one  in 
Seattle,  and  one  in  New  York  City.  Both  in  high  places 
of  trust  and  financial  importance. 

One  October  Sabbath  afternoon,  O'mie  fell  into  step 
beside  Marjie  on  the  way  from  Sabbath-school.  Since 
his  terrible  experience  in  the  Hermit's  Cave  five  years 
before,  he  had  never  been  strong.  We  became  so  ac- 
customed to  his  little  hacking  cough  we  did  not  notice 

293 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

it  until  there  came  a  day  to  all  of  us  when  we  looked  back 
and  wondered  how  we  could  have  been  so  inattentive  to 
the  thing  growing  up  before  our  eyes.  O'mie  was  never 
anything  but  a  good-hearted  Irishman,  and  yet  he  had 
a  keener  insight  into  character  and  trend  of  events  than 
any  other  boy  or  man  I  ever  knew.  I  've  always  thought 
that  if  his  life  had  been  spared  to  mature  manhood  —  but 
it  was  n't. 

"  Marjie,  I  'm  commissioned  to  invite  you  to  the  Cam- 
bridge House  for  lunch,"  O'mie  said.  "  Mary  wants  to 
see  you.  She  's  got  a  lame  arm,  fell  off  a  step  ladder  in 
the  pantry.  The  papers  on  the  top  shelves  had  been  on 
there  fifteen  minutes,  and  Aunt  Dollie  thought  they  'd 
better  put  up  clean  ones.  That's  the  how.  Dr.  John 
Anderson  's  most  sure  to  call  professionally  this  evening, 
and  Bill  Mead 's  going  to  bring  Bess  over  for  tea,  and 
there  's  still  others  on  the  outskirts,  but  you  're  specially 
wanted,  as  usual.  Bud  will  be  there,  too.  Says  he  wants 
to  see  all  the  Andersons  once  more  before  he  leaves  town, 
and  he  knows  it 's  his  last  chance ;  for  John  's  forever  at 
the  tavern,  and  Bill  Mead  is  monopolizing  Bess  at  home; 
and  you  know,  Star-face,  how  Clayton  divides  himself 
around  among  the  Whatelys  and  'Grays  over  at  Red  Range 
and  a  girl  he  's  got  up  at  Lawrence." 

"  All  this  when  I  'm  starving  for  one  of  Aunt  Dollie's 
good  lunches.  Offer  some  other  inducement,  O'mie," 
Marjie  replied  laughingly. 

"  Oh,  well,  Tillhurst  '11  be  there,  and  one  or  two  of 
the  new  folks,  all  eligible." 

"  What  makes  you  call  me  *  Star-face'  ?  That 's  what 
Jean  Pahusca  used  to  call  me."  She  shivered. 

"  Oh,  it  fits  you ;  but  if  you  object,  I  can  make  it, 
'Moon-face,'  or  'Sun-up.'" 

294 


A     MAN'S     BUSINESS 

"  Or  '  Skylight/  or  '  Big  Dipper '  ;  so  you  can  keep  to 
the  blue  firmament.  Where's  Bud  going?" 

Out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye  O'mie  caught  sight  of  Judson 
falling  in  behind  them  here  and  he  answered  carelessly : 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  where  Bud  is  going  exactly.  Kansas 
City  or  St.  Louis,  or  somewhere  else.  You  '11  come  of 
course?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  Marjie  answered,  just  as  Judson  in 
his  pompous  little  manner  called  to  her: 

"  Marjory,  I  have  invited  myself  up  to  your  mother's 
for  tea." 

"  Why,  there  's  nobody  at  home,  Mr.  Judson,"  the  girl 
said  kindly ;  "  I  'm  going  down  to  Mary  Gentry's,  and 
mother  went  up  to  Judge  Baronet's  with  Aunt  Candace 
for  lunch." 

Nobody  called  my  father's  sister  by  any  other  name. 
To  Marjie,  who  had  played  about  her  knee,  Aunt  Candace 
was  a  part  of  the  day's  life  in  Springvale.  But  the  name 
of  Baronet  was  a  red  rag  to  Judson's  temper.  He  was 
growing  more  certain  of  his  cause  every  day;  but  any 
allusion  to  our  family  was  especially  annoying,  and  this 
remark  of  Marjie's  fired  him  to  hasten  to  something 
definite  in  his  case  of  courtship. 

"  When  she  's  my  wife,"  he  had  boasted  to  Tell  Maple- 
son,  "  I  '11  put  a  stop  to  all  this  Baronet  friendship.  I 
won't  even  let  her  go  there.  Marjie  's  a  fine  girl,  but  a 
wife  must  understand  and  obey  her  lord  and  master. 
That 's  it ;  a  wife  must  obey,  or  your  home  's  ruined." 

Nobody  had  ever  accused  Tell  Mapleson's  wife  of  ruin- 
ing a  home  on  that  basis;  for  she  had  been  one  of  the 
crushed-down,  washed-out  women  who  never  have  two 
ideas  above  their  dish-pan.  She  had  been  dead  some 
years,  and  Tell  was  alone.  People  said  he  was  too  selfish 

295 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

to  marry  again.  Certainly  matrimony  was  not  much  in 
his  thoughts. 

The  talk  at  the  tavern  table  that  evening  ran  on  merrily 
among  the  young  people.  Albeit,  the  Sabbath  hour  was 
not  too  frivolous,  for  we  were  pretty  stanch  in  our  Pres- 
byterianism  there.  I  think  our  love  for  Dr.  Hemingway 
in  itself  would  have  kept  the  Sabbath  sacred.  He  never 
found  fault  with  our  Sunday  visiting.  All  days  were 
holy  to  him,  and  his  evening  sermons  taught  us  that 
frivolity,  and  idle  gossip,  and  scandal  are  as  unforgivable 
on  week  days  as  on  the  Sabbath  Day.  Somewhere  in 
the  wide  courts  of  heaven  there  must  be  reserved  an 
abode  of  inconceivable  joy  and  peace  for  such  men  as  he, 
men  who  preach  the  Word  faithfully  through  the  years, 
whose  hand-clasp  means  fellowship,  and  in  whose  tongue 
is  the  law  of  kindness. 

"Say,  Clate,  where 's  Bud  going?"  Somebody  called 
across  the  table.  Bud  was  beside  Marjie,  whose  company 
was  always  at  a  premium  in  any  gathering. 

"  Let  him  tell ;  it 's  his  secret,"  Clayton  answered.  "  I  '11 
be  glad  when  he  's  gone  " —  he  was  speaking  across  to 
Marjie  now — "then  I'll  get  some  show,  maybe." 

"  I  'm  going  to  hunt  a  wife,"  Bud  sang  out.  "  Can't 
find  a  thoul  here  who  '11  thtay  with  me  long  enough  to 
get  acquainted.  I  'm  going  out  Wetht  thomewhere." 

"  I  'd  stay  with  you  a  blamed  sight  longer  if  I  was  n't 
acquainted  with  you  than  if  I  was,"  Bill  Mead  broke  in. 
"  It 's  because  they  do  get  acquainted  that  they  don't 
stay,  Bud;  and  anyhow,  they  can  run  faster  out  there 
than  here,  the  girls  can ;  they  have  to,  to  keep  away  from 
the  Indians.  And  there  's  no  tepee  ring  for  the  ponies  to 
stumble  over.  Marjie,  do  you  remember  the  time  Jean 
Pahusca  nearly  got  you?  I  remember  it,  for  when  I  came 
to  after  the  shock,  I  was  standing  square  on  my  head 

296 


A     MAN'S     BUSINESS 

with  both  feet  in  the  air.  All  I  could  see  was  Bud  drag- 
ging Jean's  pony  out  of  the  muss.  I  thought  he  was 
upside  down  at  first  and  the  horses  were  walking  like 
flies  on  the  ceiling." 

Marjie's  memories  of  that  moment  were  keen.  So  were 
O'mie's. 

"  Well,  what  ever  did  become  of  that  Jean,  anyhow? 
Anybody  here  seen  him  for  five  years?" 

The  company  looked  at  one  another.  Bud's  face  was 
as  innocent  as  a  baby's.  Lettie  Conlow  at  the  foot  of  the 
table  encountered  O'mie's  eyes  and  her  face  flamed.  Dr. 
John  Anderson  was  explaining  the  happening  to  Tillhurst 
and  some  newcomers  in  Springvale  to  whom  the  story 
was  interesting,  and  the  whole  table  began  to  recall  old 
times*  and  old  escapades  of  Jean's. 

"  Was  n't  afraid  of  anything  on  earth,"  Bill  Mead  de- 
clared. 

"  Yeth  he  wath,  brother,"  Bud  broke  in,  while  Bess  An- 
derson blushed  deeply  at  Bud's  teasing  name.  Bill  and 
Bess  were  far  along  the  happy  way  of  youth  and  love. 

"  Why,  what  did  he  fear?  "  Judson  asked  Dave  Mead  at 
the  head  of  the  table. 

"Phil  Baronet.  He  never  would  fight  Phil.  He 
didn't  dare.  He  couldn't  bear  to  be  licked." 

And  then  the  conversation  turned  on  me,  and  my  virtues 
and  shortcomings  were  reviewed  in  friendly  gossip. 
Only  Judson's  face  wore  a  sneer. 

"  I  don't  wonder  this  Jean  was  afraid  of  him,"  a  recent- 
comer  to  the  town  declared. 

"  Oh,  if  he  was  afraid  of  this  young  man,  this  boy," 
Judson  declared,  "  he  would  have  feared  something  else ; 
that 's  it,  he  'd  been  afraid  of  other  things." 

"  He  was,"  O'mie  spoke  up. 

"  Well,  what  was  it,  O'mie?  "  Dr.  John  queried. 

297 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  Ghosts,"  O'mie  replied  gravely.  "  Oh,  I  know,"  he 
declared,  as  the  crowd  laughed.  "  I  can  prove  it  to  you 
and  tell  you  all  about  it.  1 11  do  it  some  day,  but  I  '11 
need  the  schoolhouse  and  some  lantern  slides  to  make  it 
effective.  I  may  charge  a  small  admission  fee  and  give  a 
benefit  to  defray  Bud's  expenses  home  from  this  trip." 

"Would  you  really  do  that,  O'mie?"  Mary  Gentry 
asked  him. 

But  the  query,  "Where's  Phil,  now?"  was  going  the 
rounds,  and  the  answers  were  many.  My  doings  had  not 
been  reported  in  the  town,  and  gossip  still  was  active 
concerning  me. 

"  Up  at  Topeka,"  "  Gone  to  St.  Louis,"  "  Back  in  Mas- 
sachusetts." These  were  followed  by  Dave  Mead's  dec- 
laration : 

"  The  best  boy  that  ever  went  out  of  Springvale.  Just 
his  father  over  again.  He  '11  make  some  place  prouder 
than  it  would  have  been  without  him." 

Nobody  knew  who  started  the  story  just  then,  but  it 
grew  rapidly  from  Tillhurst's  side  of  the  table  that  I  had 
gone  to  Rockport,  Massachusetts,  to  settle  in  my  father's 
old  home-town. 

"  Stands  to  reason  a  boy  who  can  live  in  Kansas  would 
go  back  to  Massachusetts,  does  n't  it?  "  Dr.  John  declared 
scornfully. 

"  But  Phil 's  to  be  married  soon,  to  that  stylish  Miss 
Melrose.  She's  got  the  money,  and  Phil  would  become 
a  fortune.  Besides,  she  was  perfectly  infatuated  with 
him." 

"  Well,"  somebody  else  asserted,  "  if  he  does  marry  her, 
he  can  bring  her  back  here  to  live.  My!  but  Judge  Bar- 
onet's home  will  be  a  grand  place  to  go  to  then.  It  was 
always  good  enough." 

Amid  all  this  clatter  Marjie  was  as  indifferent  and  self- 

298 


A    MAN'S    BUSINESS 

possessed  as  if  my  name  were  a  stranger's.  Those  who 
had  always  known  her  did  not  dream  of  what  lay  back  of 
that  sweet  girl-face.  She  was  the  belle  of  Springvale, 
and  she  had  too  many  admirers  for  any  suspicion  of  the 
truth  to  find  a  place. 

While  the  story  ran  on  Bud  turned  to  her  and  said  in 
a  low  voice,  "  Marjie,  I  *m  going  to  Phil.  He  needth 
me  now." 

Nobody  except  Bud  noticed  how  white  the  girl  was, 
as  the  company  rising  from  the  table  swept  her  away 
from  him. 

That  night  Dr.  Hemingway's  prayer  was  fervent  with 
love.  The  boys  were  always  on  his  heart,  and  he  called 
us  all  by  name.  He  prayed  for  the  young  men  of  Spring- 
vale,  who  had  grown  up  to  the  life  here  and  on  whom  the 
cares  of  citizenship,  and  the  town's  good  name  were  soon 
to  rest;  and  for  the  young  men  who  would  not  be  with 
us  again:  for  Tell  Mapleson,  that  the  snares  of  a  great 
city  like  St.  Louis  might  not  entrap  him;  for  James  Con- 
low,  whose  lines  had  led  him  away  from  us;  for  David 
Mead,  going  soon  to  the  far-away  lands  where  the  Sierras 
dip  down  the  golden  slope  to  the  Pacific  seas ;  for  August 
Anderson,  also  about  to  go  away  from  us,  that  life  and 
health  might  be  his;  and  last  of  all  for  Philip  Baronet. 
A  deeper  hush  fell  upon  the  company  bowed  in  prayer. 

"  For  Philip  Baronet,  the  strong,  manly  boy  whom  we 
all  love,  the  brave-hearted  hero  who  has  gone  out  from 
among  us,  and  as  his  father  did  before  him  for  the  homes 
of  a  nation,  so  now  the  son  has  gone  to  fight  the  battles 
of  the  prairie  domain,  and  to  build  up  a  wall  of  safety 
before  the  homes  and  hearthstones  of  our  frontier."  And 
then  he  offered  thanksgiving  to  a  merciful  Father  that, 
"  in  the  awful  conflict  which  Philip,  with  a  little  handful 
of  heroes,  has  helped  to  wage  against  the  savage  red 

299 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

man,  a  struggle  in  which  so  many  lives  have  gone  out,  our 
Philip  has  been  spared."  His  voice  broke  here,  and  he 
controlled  it  by  an  effort,  as  in  calm,  low  tones  he  finished 
his  simple  prayer  with  the  earnest  petition,  "  Keep  Thou 
these  our  boys;  and  though  they  may  walk  through  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  may  they  fear  no  evil,  for 
Thou  art  with  them.  Amen." 

It  was  the  first  intimation  the  town  had  had  of  what 
I  was  doing.  Springvale  was  not  without  a  regard  for 
me  who  had  loved  it  always,  and  then  the  thought  of 
danger  to  a  fellow  citizen  is  not  without  its  appeal.  I 
have  been  told  that  Judge  Baronet  and  Aunt  Candace 
could  not  get  down  the  aisle  after  service  until  after  ten 
o'clock  that  night  and  that  the  tears  of  men  as  well  as 
women  fell  fast  as  my  father  gave  the  words  of  the 
message  sent  to  him  by  Governor  Crawford  on  the  even- 
ing before.  Even  Chris  Mead,  always  a  quiet,  stern  man, 
sat  with  head  bowed  on  the  railing  of  the  pew  before 
him  during  the  recital.  It  was  noted  afterwards  that 
Judson  did  not  remain,  but  took  Lettie  Conlow  home  as 
soon  as  the  doxology  was  ended.  The  next  day  my  stock 
in  Springvale  was  at  a  premium;  for  a  genuine  love,  be- 
side which  fame  and  popularity  are  ashes  and  dust,  was 
in  the  heart  of  that  plain,  good  little  Kansas  town. 

Bud  called  to  say  good-bye  to  Marjie,  before  he  left 
home. 

"  Are  you  going  out  West  to  stay?  "  Marjie  asked. 

"  I  'm  going  to  try  it  out  there.  Clate  'th  got  all  the 
law  here  a  young  man  can  get ;  he  'th  gobbled  up  Dave 
and  Phil  'th  share  of  the  thing.  John  will  be  the  coming 
M.  D.  of  the  town,  and  Bill  Mead  already  taketh  to  the 
bank  like  a  duck  to  water.  I  'm  going  to  try  the  Wetht. 
What  word  may  I  take  to  Phil  for  you?  " 

"  There 's  nothing  to  say,"   Marjie  answered. 

300 


A     MAN'S     BUSINESS 

To  his  words,  "  I  hoped  there  might  be,"  she  only  said 
gayly,  "  Good-bye,  Bud.  Be  a  good  boy,  and  be  sure  not 
to  forget  Springvale,  for  we  '11  always  love  your  memory." 

And  so  he  left  her.  He  was  a  good  boy,  nor  did  he 
forget  the  town  where  his  memory  is  green  still  in  the 
hearts  of  all  who  knew  him.  His  last  thought  was  of 
Springvale,  and  he  babbled  of  the  Neosho,  and  fancied 
himself  in  the  shallows  down  by  the  Deep  Hole.  He 
clung  to  me,  as  in  his  childhood,  and  begged  me  to  carry 
him  on  my  shoulders  when  waters  of  Death  were  rolling 
over  him.  I  held  his  hand  to  the  last,  and  when  the 
silence  fell,  I  stretched  myself  on  the  brown  curly  mes- 
quite  beside  him  and  thanked  God  that  He  had  let  me 
know  this  boy.  Ever  more  my  life  will  be  richer  for  the 
remembrance  it  holds  of  him. 

Bud  left  Springvale  in  one  of  those  dripping,  chilly,  wet 
days  our  Kansas  Octobers  sometimes  mix  in  with  their 
opal-hued  hours  of  Indian  summer.  That  evening  Tell 
Mapleson  dropped  into  Judson's  store  and  O'mie  was  let 
off  early. 

The  little  Irishman  ran  up  the  street  at  once  to  the 
Whately  home.  Mrs.  Whately  had  retired.  Eight  o'clock 
was  bed  time  for  middle-aged  people  in  our  town.  Marjie 
sat  alone  by  the  fire.  How  many  times  that  summer 
we  had  talked  of  the  long  winter  evenings  we  should 
spend  together  by  that  fireplace  in  Marjie's  cosy  sitting- 
room.  And  now  she  was  beside  the  hearth,  and  I  was 
far  away.  I  might  have  been  forgiven  without  a  word 
had  I  walked  in  that  evening  and  found  her,  as  O'mie 
did,  alone  with  her  sad  thoughts.  Marjie  never  tried  to 
hide  anything  from  O'mie.  She  knew  he  could  see  through 
any  pretence  of  hers.  She  knew,  too,  that  he  would  keep 
sacred  anything  he  saw. 

"  Marjie,  I  'm  lonesome  to-night." 

301 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

Marjie  gave  him  a  seat  beside  the  fire. 

"What  makes  you  lonesome,  O'mie?"  she  asked 
gravely. 

"  The  wrongs  av  the  world  bear  heavily  upon  me." 

Marjory  looked  at  him  curiously  to  see  if  he  was 
joking. 

"What  I  need  to  do  is  to  shrive  myself,  I  guess,  and 
then  get  up  an  inquisition,  with  myself  as  chief  inquis- 
itor." 

Marjie,  studying  the  pictures  in  the  burning  coals,  said 
nothing.  O'mie  also  sat  silent  for  a  time. 

"  Marjie,"  he  said  at  length,  "  when  you  see  things 
goin'  all  wrong  end  to,  and  you  know  what 's  behind  'em, 
drivin'  'em  wrong,  what's  your  rale  Presbyterian  duty 
then?  Let  'em  go?  or  tend  to  somethin*  else  besides  your 
own  business?  Honest,  now,  what's  what?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  're  up  to,  O'mie."  She  was 
looking  dreamily  into  the  grate,  the  firelight  on  her  young 
face  and  thoughtful  brown  eyes  making  a  picture  tenderly 
sweet  and  fair.  In  her  mind  was  the  image  of  Judge 
Baronet  as  he  looked  the  night  before,  when  he  lifted 
his  head  after  Dr.  Hemingway's  prayer  for  his  son.  And 
then  maybe  a  picture  of  the  graceless  son  himself  came 
unbidden,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  love  as  when  they 
looked  down  into  hers  on  the  day  Rachel  Melrose  came  into 
Judge  Baronet's  office  demanding  his  attention.  "  What 's 
the  matter,  O'mie?  Is  Uncle  Cam  being  imposed  on? 
You  'd  never  stand  that,  I  know." 

"  No,  little  girl,  Cambridge  Gentry  can  still  take  care 
of  Cam's  interest  and  do  a  kind  act  to  more  folks  off-hand 
better  than  any  other  man  I  know.  Marjie,  it's  Phil 
Baronet." 

Marjie  gave  a  start,  but  she  made  no  effort  to  hide 
her  interest. 

302 


A     MAN'S    BUSINESS 

"  Little  girl,  he 's  been  wronged,  and  lied  about,  and 
misunderstood,  by  a  crowd  av  us  who  have  knowed  him 
day  in  and  day  out  since  he  was  a  little  boy.  Marjory 
Whately,  did  anybody  iver  catch  him  in  a  lie?  Did  he 
iver  turn  coward  in  a  place  where  courage  was  needed? 
Did  he  iver  do  a  cruelty  to  a  helpless  thing,  or  fight  a 
smaller  boy?  Did  he  iver  decaive?  Honestly,  now,  was 
there  iver  anything  in  all  the  years  we  run  together  that 
was  n't  square  and  clane  and  fearless  and  lovin'  ?  " 

Marjie  sat  with  bowed  head  before  the  flickering  fire. 
When  O'mie  spoke  again  his  voice  was  husky. 

"  Little  girl,  when  I  was  tied  hand  and  foot,  and  left 
to  die  in  that  dark  Hermit's  Cave,  it  was  Phil  Baronet 
who  brought  in  the  sunlight  and  a  face  radiant  with  love. 
When  Jean  Pahusca,  drunk  as  a  fury,  was  after  you  out 
on  the  prairie  with  that  cruel  knife  ready,  the  knife  I  've 
seen  him  kill  many  a  helpless  thing  with  when  he  was 
drunk,  when  this  Jean  was  ridin'  like  a  fiend  after  you, 
Phil  turned  to  me  that  day  and  his  white  agonized  face 
I  '11  never  forget.  Now,  Marjie,  it 's  to  right  his  wrong, 
and  the  wrongs  of  some  he  loves  that  I  'm  studyin'  about. 
The  week  Phil  came  home  from  the  rally  I  took  a  vaca- 
tion. Shall  I  tell  you  why?" 

Marjie  nodded. 

"  Well,  Star-face,  it  was  laid  on  me  conscience  heavy 
to  pay  a  part  av  the  debt  I  owe  to  the  boy  who  saved  me 
life.  I  ain't  got  eyes  fur  nothin',  and  I  see  the  clouds 
gatherin'  black  about  that  boy's  head.  Back  of  'em  was 
jealousy,  that  was  a  girl;  hate,  that  was  a  man  whose 
cruel,  ugly  deeds  Phil  had  knocked  down  and  trampled 
on  and  prevented  from  comin'  to  a  harvest  of  sufferin'; 
and  revenge,  that  was  a  rebel-hearted  scoundrel  who  'd 
have  destroyed  this  town  but  for  Phil ;  and  last,  a  selfish, 
money-levin'  son  of  a  horse-thief  who  was  grabbing  for 

303 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

riches  and  pulling  hard  at  the  covers  to  hide  some  sins 
he  'd  never  want  to  come  to  the  light,  being  a  deacon  in 
the  Presbyterian  Church.  All  thim  in  one  cloud  makes 
a  hurricane,  and  with  'em  conies  a  shallow,  selfish,  pretty 
girl.  Oh,  it  was  a  sight,  Marjie.  If  I  can  do  somethin' 
to  keep  shipwreck  not  only  from  them  the  storm  's  aimed 
at,  but  them  that's  pilin'  up  trouble  fur  themselves,  too, 
I  'm  goin'  to  do  it." 

Marjie  made  no  reply. 

"  So  I  took  a  vacation  and  wint  off  on  a  visit  to  me  rich 
relatives  in  Westport." 

Marjie  could  not  help  smiling  now.  O'mie  had  not  a 
soul  to  call  his  next  of  kin. 

"  Oh,  yis,  I  wint,"  he  continued,  "  tin  days'  holiday. 
The  actual  start  to  it  was  on  the  evenin'  Phil  got  home 
from  Topeka.  The  night  of  the  party  at  Anderson's 
Lettie  Conlow  comes  into  the  store  just  at  closin'.  I 
was  behind  a  pile  of  ginghams  fixin'  some  papers  and  cord 
below  the  counter.  And  Judson,  being  a  fool  by  inher- 
itance and  choice  of  profession,  takes  no  more  notice  of 
me  than  if  I  was  a  dog ;  says  things  he  ought  n't  to  when 
he  knows  I'm  'round.  But  he  forgits  me  in  the  pride 
of  his  stuck-uppityness.  And  I  heard  Judson  say  to  her 
low,  '  Now  be  sure  to  go  right  after  dark  and  look  in 
there  again.  Your 're  sure  you  know  just  which  crevice 
of  the  rock  it  is? '  Lettie  laughed  and  said,  she  'd  watched 
it  too  long  not  to  know.  And  so  they  arranged  it,  and 
I  arranged  my  wrappin'-cord,  and  when  I  straightened 
up  (I  'm  little,  ye  know),  they  did  n't  see  my  rid  head  by 
the  pile  of  ginghams;  and  so  she  went  away.  When  I 
got  ready  I  wint,  too.  I  trailed  round  after  dark  until 
I  found  meself  under  that  point  av  rock  by  the  bushes 
in  the  steep  bend  up-street.  I  was  in  a  little  corner  full 
of  crevices,  when  along  comes  Lettie.  She  seemed  to  be 

304 


A     MAN'S    BUSINESS 

tryin'  to  get  somethin'  out  of  'em,  and  her  short  fat  arm 
couldn't  reach  it.  Blamed  inconvanient  bein'  little  and 
short!  She  tried  and  tried  and  thin  she  said  some  ugly 
words  only  a  boy  has  a  right  to  say  when  he  's  cussin' 
somethin'.  Just  thin  somethin'  made  a  noise  between 
her  and  the  steps,  and  she  made  a  rush  for  'em  and  was 
gone.  My  eyes  was  gettin'  catty  and  used  to  the  dark 
now,  and  I  could  make  out  pretty  sure  it  was  Phil  who 
sails  up  nixt,  aisy,  like  he  knowed  the  premises,  and  in 
his  hand  goes  and  he  got  out  somethin'  sayin'  to  himself 
—  and  me: 

"'Well,  Marjie  tucked  it  in  good  and  safe.  I  didn't 
know  that  hole  was  so  deep.' 

"  Marjie,  maybe  if  that  hole 's  too  deep  for  Lettie  to 
reach  clear  in,  there  might  be  somethin'  she  's  missed.  I 
dunno'.  But  niver  moind.  I  took  me  vacation,  went 
sailin*  out  with  Dever  fur  a  rale  splurge  to  Kansas  City. 
Across  the  Neosho  Dever  turns  the  stage  aside,  U.  S. 
mail  and  all,  and  lands  me  siven  miles  up  the  river  and 
ferries  me  on  this  side  again.  Dever  can  keep  the  stillest 
of  any  livin'  stage-driver  whose  business  is  to  drive  stage 
on  the  side  and  gossip  on  the  main  line.  He  never  cheeped 
a  chirp.  I  come  back  that  same  day  and  put  in  tin 
days  studyin'  things.  I  just  turned  myself  into  a  holy 
inquisition  for  tin  mortial  days.  Now,  what  I  know  has 
a  value  to  Phil's  good  name,  who  has  been  accused  of 
doing  more  diviltry  than  the  thief  on  the  cross.  Marjie, 
I  'm  goin'  to  proceed  now  and  turn  on  screws  till  the 
heretics  squeal.  It's  not  exactly  my  business;  but  — 
well,  yes,  it 's  the  Lord's  business  to  right  the  wrongs, 
and  we  must  do  His  work  now  and  then,  '  unworthy 
though  we  be,'  as  Grandpa  Mead  says,  in  prayer  meetin'." 

"  Omie,  you  heard  Dr.  Hemingway's  prayer  last  night?  " 
Marjie  asked,  in  a  voice  that  quivered  with  tears. 
20  305 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"Oh,  good  God!  Marjie,  the  men  that's  fighting  the 
battles  on  the  frontier,  the  fire-guards  around  them  prairie 
homes,  they  are  the  salt  of  the  earth."  He  dropped  his 
head  between  his  hands  and  groaned.  Presently  he  rose 
to  say  good-night. 

"Shall  I  do  it,  little  sister?  See  to  what's  not  my 
business  at  all,  at  all,  and  start  a  fire  in  this  town  big 
enough  to  light  the  skies  clear  to  where  Phil  is  this  rainy 
night,  and  he  can  read  a  welcome  home  in  it?  " 

"They  said  last  night  that  he's  going  to  be  married 
soon  to  that  Massachusetts  girl.  Maybe  he  wouldn't 
want  to  come  if  he  did  see  it,"  Marjie  murmured,  turning 
her  face  away. 

"  Oh,  maybe  not,  maybe  not.  -  Niver  did  want  to  get 
back  when  he  was  away.  But,  say,  Marjie  Star-face,  Fort 
Wallace  away  out  on  the  Plains  ain't  Rockport;  and  rich 
men's  homes  and  all  that  gabble  they  was  desecratin' 
the  Sabbath  with  at  supper  last  night — "  O'mie  broke 
off  and  took  the  girl's  trembling  hand  in  his.  "  Oh !  I 
can  look  after  that  rascal's  good  name,  but  I  don't  dare 
to  fix  things  up  for  you  two,  no  matter  what  I  know." 
So  ran  his  thoughts. 

The  rain  blew  in  a  bitter  gust  as  he  opened  the  door. 
"  Good-night,  Marjie.  It 's  an  ugly  night.  Any  old  wa- 
terproof cloak  to  lend  me,  girlie?"  he  asked,  but  Marjie 
did  not  smile.  She  held  the  light  as  in  the  olden  time 
she  had  shown  us  the  dripping  path,  and  watched  the 
little  Irishman  trotting  away  in  the  darkness. 

The  Indian  summer  of  1868  in  Kansas  was  as  short  as 
it  was  glorious.  The  next  day  was  gorgeous  after  the 
rain,  and  the  warm  sunshine  and  light  breeze  drove  all 
the  dampness  and  chill  away.  In  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon Judson  left  the  store  to  O'mie  and  went  up  to  Mrs. 
Whately's  for  an  important  business  conference.  These 

306 


A    MAN'S    BUSINESS 

conferences  were  growing  frequent  now,  and  dear  Mrs. 
Whately's  usually  serene  face  wore  a  deeply  anxious  look 
after  each  one.  Marjie  had  no  place  in  them.  It  was 
not  a  part  of  Judson's  plan  to  have  her  understand  the 
business. 

Fortune  favored  O'mie's  inquisition  scheme.  Judson 
had  hardly  left  the  store  when  Lettie  Conlow  walked  in. 
Evidently  Judson's  company  on  the  Sunday  evening  be- 
fore had  given  her  a  purpose  in  coming.  In  our  play  as 
children  Lettie  was  the  first  to  "  get  mad  and  call  names." 
In  her  young  womanhood  she  was  vindictive  and  pas- 
sionate. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Lettie.  Nice  day  after  the  rain," 
O'mie  said,  pleasantly. 

She  did  not  respond  to  his  greeting,  but  stood  before 
him  with  flashing  eyes.  She  had  often  been  called  pretty, 
and  her  type  is  always  considered  handsome,  for  her  col- 
oring was  brilliant,  and  her  form  attractive.  This  year 
she  was  the  best  dressed  girl  in  town,  although  her  father 
was  not  especially  prosperous.  Whether  transplanting  in 
a  finer  soil  with  higher  culture  might  have  changed  her  I 
cannot  say,  for  the  Conlow  breed  ran  low  and  the  stamp 
of  the  common  grade  was  on  Lettie.  I  've  seen  the  same 
on  a  millionaire's  wife;  so  it  is  in  the  blood,  and  not  in 
the  rank.  No  other  girl  in  town  broke  the  law  as  Lettie 
did,  and  kept  her  good  name,  but  we  had  always  known 
her.  The  boys  befriended  her  more  than  the  girls  did, 
partly  because  we  knew  more  of  her  escapades,  and  partly 
because  she  would  sometimes  listen  to  us.  A  pretty, 
dashing,  wilful,  untutored,  and  ill-principled  girl,  she  was 
sowing  the  grain  of  a  certain  harvest. 

"  O'mie,"  she  began  angrily,  "  you  've  been  talking 
about  me,  and  you  've  been  spying  on  me  long  enough ; 
and  I  'm  going  to  settle  upon  you  now.  You  are  a  con- 

307 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

temptible  spy,  and  you  're  the  biggest  rascal  in  this  town. 
That's  what  you  are." 

"  Not  by  the  steelyards,  I  ain't,"  O'mie  replied.  Pass- 
ing from  behind  the  counter  and  courteously  offering  her 
a  chair.  Then  jumping  upon  the  counter  beside  her  he 
sat  swinging  his  heels  against  it,  fingering  the  yard-stick 
beside  the  pile  of  calicoes.  "  Not  by  the  steelyards,  I 
ain't  the  biggest.  Tell  Mapleson  's  lots  longer,  and  James 
Conlow,  blacksmith,  and  Cam  Gentry,  and  Cris  Mead  are 
all  bigger.  But  if  you  want  to  settle  me,  I'm  ready. 
Who  says  I  've  been  talking  about  you?  " 

"  Amos  Judson,  and  he  knows.  He  's  told  me  all  about 
you." 

O'mie's  irrepressible  smile  spread  over  his  face.  "  All 
about  me?  I  didn't  give  him  credit  for  that  much  in- 
sight." 

"  I  'm  not  joking,  and  you  must  listen  to  me.  I  want 
to  know  why  you  tag  after  me  every  place  I  go.  No 
gentleman  would  do  that." 

"  Maybe  not,  nor  a  lady  nather,"  O'mie  interposed. 

Lettie's  face  burned  angrily. 

"  And  you  've  been  saying  things  about  me.  You  Ve 
got  to  quit  it.  Only  a  dirty  coward  would  talk  about  a 
girl  as  you  do."  ' 

She  stamped  her  foot  and  her  pudgy  hands  were 
clenched  into  hard  little  knots.  It  was  a  cheap  kind  of 
fury,  a  flimsy  bit  of  drama,  but  tragedies  have  grown  out 
of  even  a  lesser  degree  of  unbridled  temper.  O'mie  was 
a  monkey  to  whom  the  ludicrous  side  of  life  forever  ap- 
pealed, and  the  sight  of  Lettie  as  an  accusing  vengeance 
was  too  much  for  him.  The  twinkle  in  his  eye  only 
angered  her  the  more. 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  laugh,  you  and  Marjie  Whately. 
How  I  hate  her !  but  I  've  fixed  her.  You  two  have  al- 

308 


A     MAN'S    BUSINESS 

ways  been  against  me,  I  know.  I  've  heard  what  you 
say.  She 's  a  liar,  and  a  mean  flirt,  always  trying  to 
take  everybody  away  from  me ;  and  as  good  as  a  pauper 
if  Judson  did  n't  just  keep  her  and  her  mother." 

"  Marjie  'd  never  try  to  get  Judson  away  from  Lettie," 
O'mie  thought,  but  all  sense  of  humor  had  left  his  face 
now.  "  Lettie  Conlow,"  he  said,  leaning  toward  her  and 
speaking  calmly,  "  you  may  call  me  what  you  please  — 
Lord,  it  could  n't  hurt  me  —  but  you,  nor  nobody  else, 
man  or  woman,  praist  or  pirate,  is  comin'  into  this  store 
while  I  'm  alone  in  controllin'  it,  and  call  Marjie  Whately 
nor  any  other  dacent  woman  by  any  evil  names.  If 
you  've  come  here  to  settle  me,  settle  away,  and  when  you 
get  through  my  turn's  comhV  to  settle;  but  if  you  say 
another  word  against  Marjie  or  any  other  woman,  by  the 
holy  Joe  Spooner,  and  all  the  other  saints,  you  '11  walk 
right  out  that  door,  or  I  '11  throw  you  out  as  I  'd  do  any- 
body else  in  the  same  case,  no  matter  if  they  was  mas- 
culine, feminine,  or  neuter  gender.  Now  you  understand 
me.  If  you  have  anything  more  to  say,  say  it  quick." 

Lettie  was  furious  now,  but  the  Conlow  blood  is  not 
courageous,  and  she  only  ground  her  teeth  and  muttered: 
"  Always  the  same.  Nobody  dares  to  say  a  word  against 
her.  What  makes  some  folks  so  precious,  I  wonder? 
There  's  Phil  Baronet,  now, —  the  biggest  swindle  in  this 
town.  Oh,  I  could  tell  you  a  lot  about  him.  I  '11  do  it 
some  day,  too.  It  '11  take  more  money  to  keep  me  still 
than  Baronet's  bank  notes." 

"  Lettie,"  said  O'mie  in  an  even  voice,  "  I  'm  waitin' 
here  to  be  settled." 

"  Then  let  me  alone.  I  'm  not  goin'  to  be  forever 
tracked  'round  like  a  thief.  I  '11  fix  you  so  you'll  keep 
still.  Who  are  you,  anyhow?  A  nobody,  poor  as  sin, 
living  off  of  this  town  all  these  years ;  never  knowing  who 

309 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

your  father  nor  mother  is,  nor  nobody  to  care  for  you; 
the  very  trash  of  the  earth,  somebody's  doorstep  found- 
ling, to  set  yourself  up  over  me !  You  'd  ought  to  'a  been 
run  out  of  town  long  ago." 

"  I  was,  back  in  '63,  an'  half  the  town  came  after  me, 
had  to  drag  me  back  with  ropes,  they  was  so  zealous  to 
get  me.  I  was  n't  worth  it,  all  the  love  and  kindness  the 
town  's  give  me.  Now,  Lettie,  what  else  ?  " 

"  Nothing  except  this.  After  what  Dr.  Hemingway 
said  last  night  Springvale  's  gone  crazy  about  Phil  again. 
Just  crazy,  and  he 's  sure  to  come  back  here.  If  he 
does  " —  she  broke  off  a  moment  — "  well,  you  know  what 
you  've  been  up  to  for  four  months,  trackin'  me,  and 
tellin'  things  you  don't  know.  Are  you  goin'  to  quit  it? 
That 's  all." 

"  The  evidence  bein*  in  an*  the  plaintiff  restin',"  O'mie 
said  gravely,  "  it 's  time  for  the  defence  in  the  case  to 
begin. 

"  You  saved  me  a  trip,  my  lady,  for  I  was  comin'  over 
this  very  evenin'  to  settle  with  you.  But  never  mind,  we 
can  do  it  now.  Judson  's  havin'  one  of  his  M.  E.  quarterly 
conferences  up  at  the  Whately  house  and  we  are  free  to 
talk  this  out.  You  say  I  'm  a  contemptible  spy.  Lettie, 
we  're  a  pair  of  'em,  so  we  '11  lave  off  the  adjective  or 
adverb,  which  ever  it  is,  that  does  that  for  names  of 
*  persons,  places,  and  things  that  can  be  known  or  men- 
tioned.' Some  of  'em  that  can  be  known,  can't  aven  be 
mentioned,  though.  Where  were  you,  Lettie,  whin  I 
was  spyin*  and  what  were  you  doin*  at  the  time  yoursilf  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  had  a  right  to  be  there.  It 's  a  free  country, 
and  it  was  my  own  business,  not  somebody  else's,"  the 
girl  retorted  angrily,  as  the  situation  dawned  on  her. 

"  Exactly,"  O'mie  went  on.  "  It 's  a  free  country  and 
we  both  have  a  right  to  tend  to  our  own  business.  No- 

310 


A     MAN'S     BUSINESS 

body  has  a  right  to  tend  to  a  business  of  sin  and  evil- 
doin'  toward  his  neighbor,  though,  my  girl.  If  I  've  tagged 
you  and  spied,  and  played  the  dirty  coward,  and  ain't  no 
gintleman,  it  was  to  save  a  good  name,  and  to  keep  from 
exposure  a  name  —  maybe  it 's  a  girl's,  none  too  good, 
I  'm  afraid  —  but  it  would  niver  come  to  the  gossips 
through  me.  You  know  that." 

Lettie  did  know  it.  O'mie  and  she  had  made  mud  pies 
together  in  the  days  when  they  still  talked  in  baby  words. 
It  was  because  he  was  true  and  kind,  because  he  was  a 
friend  to  every  man,  woman,  and  child  there,  that  Spring- 
vale  loves  his  memory  to-day. 

"  Second,  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could  make  things  right, 
but  I  can't.  I  wish  you  could,  but  some  of  'em  you  won't 
and,  Lettie,  some  of  'em  you  can't  now. 

"  Third,  you  've  heard  what  I  said  about  you.  Why, 
child,  I  've  said  the  worst  to  you.  No  words  comin' 
straight  nor  crooked  to  you,  have  I  said  of  you  I  'd  not 
say  to  yoursilf,  face  to  face. 

"  And  again  now,  girlie,  you  Ve  talked  plain  here ;  came 
pretty  near  callin'  me  names,  in  fact.  I  can  stand  it,  and 
I  guess  I  deserve  some  of  'em.  I  am  something  of  a 
rascal,  and  a  consummate  liar,  I  admit;  but  when  you 
talk  about  a  lot  of  scandal  up  your  sleeve,  more  'n  bank 
notes  can  pay  by  blackmail,  and  your  chance  of  fixin' 
Phil  Baronet's  character,  Lettie,  you  just  can't  do  it. 
You  are  too  mad  to  be  anything  but  foolish  to-day,  but 
I  'm  glad  you  did  come  to  me ;  it  may  save  more  'n  Phil's 
name.  Your  own  is  in  the  worst  jeopardy  right  now. 
You  said,  in  conclusion,  that  I  was  trackin'  you,  and  you 
ask,  am  I  goin'  to  quit  it?  The  defendant  admits  the 
charge,  pleads  guilty  on  that  count,  and  throws  himself 
on  the  mercy  av  the  coort.  But  as  to  the  question,  am 
I  goin'  to  quit  it,  I  answer  yes.  Whin?  Whin  there's 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

no  more  need  fur  it,  and  not  one  minute  sooner.  I  may 
be  the  very  trash  av  the  earth,  with  no  father  nor  mother 
nor  annybody  to  care  for  me  "  (I  can  see,  even  now,  the 
pathetic  look  that  came  sometimes  into  his  laughing  gray 
eyes.  It  must  have  been  in  them  at  that  moment)  ;  "  but 
I  have  sometimes  been  'round  when  things  I  could  do 
needed  doin',  and  I  'm  goin'  to  be  prisent  now,  and  in  the 
future,  to  put  my  hand  up  against  wrong-doin'  if  I  can." 
O'mie  paused,  while  that  little  dry  cough  that  brought 
a  red  spot  to  each  cheek  had  its  way. 

"  Now,  Lettie,  you  've  had  your  say  with  me,  and  your 
mind's  relieved.  It's  my  time  to  say  a  few  things,  and 
you  must  listen." 

Lettie  sat  looking  at  the  floor. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  have  to  listen,"  she  spoke  defiantly. 

"  Nor  do  I  know  why  I  had  to  listen  to  what  you  said. 
You  don't  need  to,  but  I  would  if  I  was  you.  It  may  be 
all  the  better  for  you  in  a  year  if  you  do.  You  spake  av 
bein'  tagged  wherever  you  go.  Who  begun  it?  I  '11  tell 
you.  Back  in  the  summer  one  day,  two  people  drove  out 
to  the  stone  cabin,  the  haunted  one,  by  the  river  in  the 
draw  below  the  big  cottonwood.  Somebody  made  his 
home  there,  somebody  who  did  n't  dare  to  show  his  face 
in  Springvale  by  day,  'cause  his  hand 's  been  lifted  to 
murder  his  fellow  man.  But  he  hangs  'round  here, 
skulkin*  in  by  night  to  see  the  men  he  does  business  with, 
and  meetin'  foolish  girls  who  ought  never  to  trust  him  a 
minute.  This  man  's  waiting  his  chance  to  commit  mur- 
der again,  or  worse.  I  know,  fur  I  've  laid  fur  him  too 
many  times.  There 's  no  cruel-hearted  savage  on  the 
Plains  more  dangerous  to  the  settlers  on  the  frontier ;  not 
one  av  'em  'ud  burn  a  house,  and  kill  men  and  children, 
and  torture  and  carry  off  women,  quicker  than  this  mis- 
erable dog  that  a  girl  who  should  value  her  good  name  has 

312 


A    MAN'S    BUSINESS 

been  counsellin'  with  time  and  again,  this  summer,  partly 
on  account  of  jealousy,  and  partly  because  of  a  silly  notion 
of  bein'  romantic.  Back  in  June  she  made  a  trip  to  the 
cabin  double  quick  to  warn  the  varmint  roostin'  there.  In 
her  haste  she  dropped  a  bow  of  purple  ribbon  which  with 
some  other  finery  a  certain  little  store-keeper  gives  her 
to  do  his  spyin'  fur  him.  It 's  a  blamed  lovely  cabal  in 
this  town.  I  know  'em  all  by  name. 

"  Spakin'  of  bein'  paupers  and  bein'  kept  by  Judson, 
Lettie  —  who  is  payin'  the  wages  of  sin,  in  money  and 
fine  clothes,  right  now?  It 's  on  the  books,  and  I  kape 
the  books.  But,  my  dear  girl," — O'mie  looked  straight 
into  her  black  eyes  — "  they  's  books  bein'  kept  of  the  pur- 
pose, price  av  the  goods,  and  money.  And  you  and  him 
may  answer  for  that.  I  can  swear  in  coort  only  to  what 
Judson  spends  on  you;  you  know  what  for." 

Lettie  cowered  down  before  her  inquisitor,  and  her 
anger  was  mingled  with  fear  and  shame. 

"  This  purple  bow  was  found,  identified.  Aven  Uncle 
Cam,  short-sighted  as  he  is,  remembered  who  wore  it  that 
day ;  aven  see  her  gallopin'  into  town  and  noticed  she  'd 
lost  it.  This  same  girl  hung  around  the  cliff  till  she  found 
a  secret  place  where  two  people  put  their  letters.  She 
comes  in  here  and  tells  me  I  've  no  business  taggin'  her. 
What  business  had  she  robbin'  folks  of  letters,  stealin' 
'em  out,  and  givin'  'em  into  wicked  hands?  Lettie,  you 
know  whose  letter  you  took  when  you  could  reach  far 
enough  to  git  it  out,  and  you  know  where  you  put  it. 

"  You  said  you  could  ruin  Phil.  It 's  aisy  for  a  woman 
to  do  that,  I  admit.  No  matter  how  hard  the  church  may 
be  on  'em,  and  how  much  other  women  may  cut  'em  dead 
for  doin'  wrong  things,  a  woman  can  go  into  a  coort-room 
and  swear  a  man's  character  away,  an'  the  jury  '11  give  her 
judgment  every  time.  The  law's  a  lot  aisier  with  the 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

women  than  the  crowd  you  associate  with  is."  Omie's 
speech  was  broken  off  by  his  cough. 

"  Now  to  review  this  case  a  bit.  The  night  av  the  An- 
derson's party  you  tried  to  get  the  letter  Marjie  'd  put  up 
for  Phil.  You  did  n't  do  it." 

"  I  never  tried,"  Lettie  declared. 

"  How  come  the  rid  flowers  stuck  with  the  little  burrs 
on  your  dress?  They  don't  grow  anywhere  round  here 
only  on  that  cliff  side.  I  pulled  off  one  bunch,  and  I  saw 
Phil  pull  off  another  when  your  skirts  caught  on  a  nail  in 
the  door.  But  I  saw  more'n  that.  I  stood  beside  you 
when  you  tried  to  get  the  letter,  and  I  heard  you  tell 
Judson  you  had  failed.  I  can't  help  my  ears;  the  Al- 
mighty made  'em  to  hear  with,  and  as  you  've  said,  I  am 
a  contemptible  spy. 

"  You  have  given  hints,  mean  ugly  little  hints,  of  what 
you  could  tell  about  Phil  on  that  night.  He  took  you 
home,  as  he  was  asked  to  do.  But  what  took  you  to  the 
top  of  the  cliff  at  midnight?  It  was  to  meet  Jean  Pa- 
husca,  the  dog  the  gallows  is  yappin'  for  now.  You 
waited  while  he  tried  to  kill  Phil.  He  'd  done  it,  too,  if 
Phil  had  n't  been  too  strong  to  be  killed  by  such  as  him. 
And  then  you  and  Jean  were  on  your  way  out  to  his 
cabin  whin  the  boys  found  you.  You  know  Bill  and  Bud 
was  goin'  to  Red  Range,  that  night  in  the  carriage  when 
they  overtook  you.  It  was  moonlight,  you  remember; 
and  ridin'  on  the  back  seat  was  Cris  Mead,  silent  as  he 
always  is,  but  he  heard  every  word  that  was  said.  Bud 
come  all  the  way  back  with  you  to  keep  your  good  name  a 
little  while  longer;  took  chances  on  his  own  to  save  a 
girl's.  It's  Phil  Baronet  put  that  kind  of  loyalty  into 
the  boys  av  this  town.  No  wonder  they  love  him.  Bud's 
affidavit 's  on  file  ready,  when  needed ;  and  Bill  is  here  to 
testify ;  and  Cris  Mead's  name 's  good  on  paper,  or  in 


A     MAN'S    BUSINESS 

coort,  or  prayer  meetin'.  Lettie,  you  have  sold  yourself 
to  two  of  the  worst  men  ever  set  foot  in  this  town." 

"  Amos  Judson  is  my  best  friend ;  I  '11  tell  him  you  said 
he 's  one  of  the  two  worst  men  in  this  town,"  Lettie 
cried. 

"  It 's  a  waste  av  time ;  he  knows  it  himself.  Now,  a 
girl  who  visits  in  lonely  cabins  at  dead  hours  av  the  night, 
with  men  she  knows  is  dangerous,  ought  n't  to  ask  why 
some  folks  are  so  precious.  It 's  because  they  keep  their 
bodies  and  souls  sacred  before  Almighty  God,  and  don't 
sell  aither.  You  've  accused  me  of  tryin'  to  protect  Phil, 
and  of  keepin'  Marjie's  name  out  of  everything,  and  that 
I  've  been  spyin'  on  you.  Good  God !  Lettie,  it 's  to  keep 
you  more  'n  them.  I  was  out  after  my  own  business, 
after  things  other  folks  ought  to  a'  looked  after  and  did  n't, 
things  strictly  belongin'  to  me,  whin  I  run  across  you 
everywhere,  and  see  your  wicked  plan  to  ruin  good  names 
and  break  hearts  and  get  money  T5y  "blackmail.  Lettie, 
it's  not  too  late  to  turn  back  now.  You've  done  wrong; 
we  all  do.  But,  little  girl,  we've  knowed  each  other 
since  the  days  I  used  to  tie  your  apron  strings  when  your 
short  little  fat  arms  could  n't  reach  to  tie  'em,  and  I  know 
you  now.  What  have  you  done  with  Marjie's  letter  that 
you  stole  before  it  got  to  Phil?"  His  voice  was  kind, 
even  tender. 

"I'll  never  tell  you!"  Lettie  blazed  up  like  a  fire 
brand. 

"  Are  n't  you  willing  to  right  the  wrongs  you  've  done, 
and  save  yourself,  too?"  His  voice  did  not  change. 

"  I  'm  going  to  leave  here  when  I  get  ready.  I  'm  going 
away,  but  not  till  I  am  ready,  and — "  She  had  almost 
yielded,  but  evil  desire  is  a  strong  master.  The  spirit  of 
her  low-browed  father  gained  control  again,  and  she  raised 
a  stormy  face  to  him  who  would  have  befriended  her. 

315 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

"  I  'm  going  to  do  what  I  please,  and  go  where  I  please ; 
and  I  '11  fix  some  precious  saints  so  they  '11  never  want  to 
come  back  to  this  town ;  and  some  others  '11  wish  they 
could  leave  it." 

"  All  right,  then,"  O'mie  replied,  as  Lettie  flung  herself 
out  of  the  door,  "  if  you  find  me  among  those  prisent  when 
you  turn  some  corner  suddenly  don't  be  surprised.  I 
wonder,"  he  went  on,  "  who  got  that  letter  the  last  night 
the  miserable  Melrose  girl  was  here,  or  the  night  after. 
I  wonder  how  she  could  reach  it  when  she  couldn't  get 
the  other  one.  Maybe  the  hole  had  something  in  it,  one 
of  Phil's  letters  to  Marjie,  who  knows?  And  that  was 
why  that  letter  did  not  get  far  enough  back  from  her 
thievin'  fingers.  Oh,  I  'm  mighty  glad  Kathleen  Mor- 
rison give  me  the  mitten  for  Jess  Gray,  one  of  them  Red 
Range  boys.  How  can  a  man  as  good  and  holy  as  I  am 
manage  the  obstreperous  girls?  But,"  he  added  seriously, 
"  this  is  too  near  to  sin  and  disgrace  to  joke  about  now." 


316 


CHAPTER    XX 
THE    CLEFT    IN    THE    ROCK 

And  yet  I  know  past  all  doubting  truly, 
A  knowledge  greater  than  grief  can  dim, 

I  know  as  he  loved,  he  will  love  me  duly, 
Yea,  better,  e'en  better,  than  I  loved  him. 

—  JEAN  INQELOW. 

T  1C  THILE  O'mie  and  Lettie  were  acting  out  their  little 
V  V  drama  in  the  store  that  afternoon,  Judson  was  up 
in  Mrs.  Whately's  parlor  driving  home  matters  of  business 
with  a  hasty  and  masterful  hand.  Marjie  had  slipped 
away  at  his  coming,  and  for  the  second  time  since  I  had 
left  Springvale  she  took  the  steep  way  up  to  our  "  Rock- 
port."  Had  she  known  what  was  going  on  at  home  she 
might  have  stayed  there  in  spite  of  her  prejudices. 

"  It 's  just  this  way,  Mrs.  Whately,"  Judson  declared, 
when  he  had  formally  opened  the  conference,  "it's  just 
this  way.  With  all  my  efforts  in  your  behalf,  your  busi- 
ness interest  in  the  store  has  been  eaten  up  by  your  ex- 
penditures. Of  course  I  know  you  have  always  lived  up 
to  a  certain  kind  of  style  whether  you  had  the  money  or 
not;  and  I  can  understand,  bein'  a  commercialist,  how 
easy  those  things  go.  But  that  don't  alter  the  fact  that 
you  '11  have  no  more  income  from  the  store  in  a  very  few 
months.  I  'm  planning  extensive  changes  in  the  Winter 
for  next  Spring,  and  it'll  take  all  the  income.  Do  you 
see  now?  " 

"Partly,"   Mrs.  Whately  replied  faintly. 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

She  was  a  sweet-spirited,  gentle  woman.  She  had  been 
reared  in  a  home  of  luxury.  Her  own  home  had  been 
guarded  by  a  noble,  loving  husband,  and  her  powers  of 
resource  had  never  been  called  out.  Of  all  the  women  I 
have  ever  known,  she  was  least  fitted  to  match  her  sense 
of  honor,  her  faith  in  mankind,  and  her  inexperience  and 
lack  of  business  knowledge  against  such  an  unprincipled, 
avaricious  man  as  the  one  who  domineered  over  her 
affairs. 

Judson  had  been  tricky  and  grasping  in  the  day  of  his 
straightened  circumstances,  but  he  might  never  have  de- 
veloped into  the  scoundrel  he  became,  had  prosperity  not 
fallen  upon  him  by  chance.  Sometimes  it  is  poverty,  and 
sometimes  it  is  wealth  that  plays  havoc  with  a  man's 
character  and  leads  an  erring  nature  into  consummate 
villainy. 

"  Well,  now,  if  you  can  see  what  I  'm  tellin'  you,  that 
you  are  just  about  penniless  (you  will  be  in  a  few  months ; 
that 's  it,  you  will  be  soon),  then  you  can  see  how  mag- 
nanimous a  man  can  be,  even  a  busy  merchant,  a  —  a 
commercialist,  if  I  must  use  the  word  again.  You  '11  not 
only  be  poor  with  nobody  to  support  you,  but  you  '11  be 
worse,  my  dear  woman,  you  '11  be  disgraced.  That 's  it, 
just  disgraced.  I've  kept  stavin'  it  off  for  you,  but  it 's 
comin' —  ugly  disgrace  for  you  and  Marjory." 

Mrs.  Whately  looked  steadily  at  him  with  a  face  so 
blanched  with  grief  only  a  hard-hearted  wretch  like  Jud- 
son could  have  gone  on. 

"  I  've  been  gettin'  you  ready  for  this  for  months,  have 
laid  my  plans  carefully,  and  I  've  been  gradually  puttin' 
the  warnin'  of  it  in  your  mind." 

This  was  true.  Judson  had  been  most  skilfully  paving 
the  way,  else  Mrs.  Whately  would  not  have  had  that 
troubled  face  and  burdened  spirit  after  each  conference. 


THE     CLEFT     IN     THE     ROCK 

The  intimation  of  disaster  had  grown  gradually  to  dreaded 
expectation  with  her. 

"  Do  tell  me  what  it  is,  Amos.  Anything  is  better  than 
this  suspense.  I  '11  do  anything  to  save  Marjie  from  dis- 
grace." 

"  Now,  that 's  what  I  've  been  a-waitin'  for.  Just 
a-waitin'  till  you  was  ready  to  say  you  'd  do  what 's  got 
to  be  done  anyhow.  Well,  it 's  this.  Whately,  your  de- 
ceased first  husband  " —  Judson  always  used  the  numeral 
when  speaking  of  a  married  man  or  woman  who  had 
passed  away  — "  Whately,  he  made  a  will  before  he  went  to 
the  war.  Judge  Baronet  drawed  it  up,  and  I  witnessed 
it.  Now  that  will  listed  and  disposed  of  an  amount  of 
property,  enough  to  keep  you  and  Marjie  in  finery  long  as 
you  lived.  That  will  and  some  other  valuable  papers 
was  lost  durin'  the  war  (some  says  just  when  they  was 
taken,  but  they  don't  know),  and  can't  nowhere  be  found. 
Havin'  entire  care  of  the  business  in  his  absence,  and  bein* 
obliged  to  assoom  control  on  his  said  demise  at  Chat- 
tanoogy,  I  naturally  found  out  all  about  his  affairs.  To 
be  short,  Mrs.  Whately,  he  never  had  the  property  he  said 
he  had.  Nobody  could  find  the  money.  There  was  an 
awful  shortage.  You  can't  understand,  but  in  a  word, 
he  was  a  disgraced,  dishonest  man  —  a  thief  —  that 's  it." 

Mrs.  Whately  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  groaned 
aloud. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Whately,  you  must  n't  take  on  and  you 
must  forget  the  past.  It 's  the  present  day  we  're  livin* 
in,  and  the  future  that 's  a-comin'.  Nobody  can  control 
what 's  comin',  but  me."  He  rose  up  to  his  five  feet  and 
three  inches,  and  swelled  to  the  extent  of  his  power. 
"  Me."  He  tapped  his  small  chest.  "  I  '11  come  straight 
to  the  end  of  this  thing.  Phil  Baronet's  been  quite  a 
friend  here,  quite  a  friend.  I  've  explained  to  you  all  about 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

him.  Now  you  know  he's  left  town  to  keep  from  bein' 
mixed  up  in  some  things.  They  's  some  business  of  his 
father's  he  was  runnin'  crooked.  You  know  they  say,  I 
heard  it  out  at  Fingal's  Creek,  that  he  left  here  on  account 
of  a  girl  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of.  And  if  they  'd  talk  that 
way  about  one  girl,  they  '11  say  Marjie  was  doin'  wrong 
to  go  with  him.  You  've  all  been  friends  of  the  Baronets. 
I  never  could  see  why;  but  now  —  well,  you  know  Phil 
left.  Now,  it  rests  with  me  " —  more  tapping  on  that  little 
quart-measure  chest  — "  with  me  to  keep  things  quiet  and 
save  his  name  from  further  talk,  and  save  Marjie,  too. 
Many  a  man,  a  business  man,  now,  would  n't  have  done 
as  I  'm  doin'.  I  '11  marry  Marjie.  That  saves  you  from 
poverty.  It  saves  Irving  Whately's  name  from  lastin' 
disgrace,  and  it  saves  Baronet's  boy.  I  can  control  the 
men  that 's  against  Baronet,  in  the  business  matter  — 
some  land  case  —  and  I  know  the  girl  that  the  talk 's  all 
about;  and  it  saves  Marjory's  name  bein'  mixed  up  with 
this  boy  of  Judge  Baronet's." 

Had  Judson  been  before  Aunt  Candace,  she  would  have 
thrust  him  from  the  door  with  one  lifting  of  her  strong, 
shapely  hand.  Dollie  "Gentry  would  have  cracked  his  head 
with  her  rolling  pin  before  she  let  him  go.  Cris  Mead's 
wife  would  have  chased  him  clear  to  the  Neosho ;  she  was 
Bill  Mead's  own  mother  when  it  came  to  whooping  things ; 
but  poor,  gentle  Mrs.  Whately  sat  dumb  and  dazed  in 
a  grief-stricken  silence. 

"  Give  me  your  consent,  and  the  thing 's  done.  Mar- 
jie's  only  twenty.  She'll  come  to  me  for  safety  soon 
as  she  knows  what  you  do.  She  '11  have  to,  to  save  them 
that 's  dearest  to  her.  You  and  her  father  and  her  friend- 
ship for  the  Baronets  ought  to  do  somethin';  besides, 
Marjie  needs  somebody  to  look  after  her.  She  's  a  pretty 
girl  and  everybody  runs  after  her.  She'd  be  spoiled. 

320 


THE     CLEFT    IN     THE    ROCK 

And  she 's  fond  of  me,  always  was  fond  of  me. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  some  men  makes 
girls  act  so ;  but  now,  there 's  Lettie  Conlow,  she 's 
just  real  fond  of  me."  (Oh,  the  popinjay !)  "  You  '11 
say  yes,  and  say  it  now."  There  was  a  ring  of  authority 
in  his  last  words,  to  which  Mrs.  Whately  had  insensibly 
come  to  yield. 

She  sat  for  a  long  time  trying  to  see  a  way  out  of  all 
this  tangled  web  of  her  days.  At  last,  she  said  slowly: 
"  Marjie  is  n't  twenty-one,  but  she  's  old  for  her  years.  I 
won't  command  her.  If  she  will  consent,  so  will  I,  and 
I  '11  do  all  I  can." 

Judson  was  jubilant.  He  clapped  his  hands  and  gig- 
gled hysterically. 

"  Good  enough,  good  enough !  I  '11  let  it  be  quietly 
understood  we  are  engaged,  and  I  '11  manage  the  rest. 
You  must  use  all  the  influence  you  can  with  her.  Leave 
nothing  undid  that  you  can  do.  Oh,  joy !  You  '11  excuse 
my  pleasure,  Mrs.  Whately.  The  prize  is  as  good  as  mine 
right  now,  though  it  may  take  a  few  months  even  to  get 
it  all  completely  settled.  I  '11  go  slow  and  quiet  and  care- 
ful. But  I  've  won." 

Could  Mrs.  Whately  have  seen  clear  into  the  man's 
cruel,  cunning  little  mind,  she  would  have  been  unutterably 
shocked  at  the  ugly  motives  contending  there.  But  she 
could  n't  see.  She  was  made  for  sunshine  and  quiet  ways. 
She  could  never  fathom  the  gloom.  It  was  from  her 
father  that  Marjie  inherited  all  that  strong  will  and  cour- 
age and  power  to  walk  as  bravely  in  the  shadows  as  in 
the  light,  trusting  and  surefooted  always. 

Judson  waited  only  until  some  minor  affairs  had  been 
considered,  and  then  he  rose  to  go. 

"  I  'm  so  sure  of  the  outcome  now,"  he  said  gleefully, 
"  I  '11  put  a  crimp  in  some  stories  right  away ;  and  I  '11  just 
21  321 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

let  it  be  known  quietly  at  once  that  the  matter  's  settled 
("then  Marjie  can't  change  it,"  he  added  mentally). 
"  And  you  're  to  use  all  your  influence.  Good-evening, 
my  dear  Mrs.  W.  It  '11  soon  be  another  name  I  may  have 
for  you." 

Meanwhile,  Marjie  sat  up  on  "  Rockport,"  looking  out 
over  the  landscape,  wrapped  in  the  autumn  peace.  Every 
inch  of  the  cliff-side  was  sacred  to  her.  The  remembrance 
of  happy  childhood  and  the  sweet  and  tender  memories 
of  love's  young  dream  had  hallowed  all  the  ground  and 
made  the  view  of  the  whole  valley  a  part  of  the  life  of 
the  days  gone  by.  The  woodland  along  the  Neosho  was 
yellow  and  bronze  and  purple  in  the  afternoon  sunshine, 
the  waters  swept  along  by  verdant  banks,  for  the  fall 
rains  had  given  life  to  the  brown  grasses  of  August.  Far 
up  the  river,  the  shapely  old  cottonwood  stood  in  the 
pride  of  its  autumn  gold,  outlined  against  a  clear  blue  sky, 
while  all  the  prairie  lay  in  seas  of  golden  haze  about  it. 
On  the  gray,  jagged  rocks  of  the  cliff,  the  blood-red  leaves 
of  the  vines  made  a  rich  warmth  of  color. 

For  a  long  time  Marjie  sat  looking  out  over  the  valley. 
Its  beauty  appealed  to  her  now  as  it  had  done  in  the 
gladsome  days,  only  the  appeal  touched  other  depths  of 
her  nature  and  fitted  her  sadder  mood.  At  last  the  thought 
of  what  might  have  been  filled  her  eyes  with  tears. 

"  I  '11  go  down  to  our  post-office,  as  O'mie  suggested," 
she  declared  to  herself.  "  Oh,  anything  to  break  away 
from  this  hungry  longing  for  what  can  never  be ! " 

The  little  hidden  cleft  was  vine-covered  now,  and  the 
scarlet  leaves  clung  in  a  lacework  about  the  gray  stone 
under  which  the  crevice  ran  back  clean  and  dry  for. 
an  arm's  length.  It  was  a  reflex  action,  and  not  a  choice 
of  will,  that  led  Marjie  to  thrust  her  hand  in  as  she  had 
done  so  often  before.  Only  cold  stone  received  her  touch. 

322 


THE    CLEFT    IN    THE    ROCK 

She  recalled  O'mie's  picture  of  Lettie,  short-necked,  stubby 
Lettie,  down  there  in  the  dark  trying  to  stretch  her  fat 
arm  to  the  limit  of  the  crevice,  and  as  she  thought,  Mar- 
jie  slipped  her  own  arm  to  its  full  length,  down  the  cleft. 
Something  touched  her  hand.  She  turned  it  in  her  fingers. 
It  was  paper  —  a  letter  —  and  she  drew  it  out.  A  letter 
—  my  letter  —  the  long,  loving  message  I  had  penned  to 
her  on  the  night  of  the  party  at  Anderson's.  Clear  and 
white,  as  when  I  put  it  there  that  moonlit  midsummer 
night,  when  I  thrust  it  in  too  far  for  my  little  girl  to 
find  without  an  effort. 

Marjie  carried  it  up  to  "  Rockport "  and  sat  down. 
She  had  no  notion  of  when  it  was  put  there.  She  only 
knew  it  was  from  my  pen. 

"  It 's  his  good-bye  for  old  times'  sake,"  she  mused. 

And  then  she  read  it,  slowly  at  first,  as  one  would  drink 
a  last  cup  of  water  on  the  edge  of  a  desert,  for  this  was 
a  voice  from  the  old  happy  life  she  had  put  all  away  now. 
I  had  done  better  than  I  dreamed  of  doing  in  that  writing. 
Here  was  Rachel  Melrose  set  in  her  true  light,  the  possi- 
bility of  a  visit,  and  the  possibility  of  her  words  and 
actions,  just  as  direct  as  a  prophecy  of  what  had  really 
happened.  Oh!  it  cleared  away  every  reason  for  doubt. 
Even  the  Rockport  of  Rachel's  rapturous  memory,  I  de- 
clared I  detested  because  only  our  "  Rockport "  meant 
anything  to  me.  And  then  she  read  of  her  father's  dying 
message.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  known  of  that, 
and  the  letter  in  her  trembling  hands  pulsed  visibly  with 
her  strong  heart-throbs.  Then  came  the  closing  words: 

"  Good-night,  my  dear,  dear  girl,  my  wife  that  is  to 
be,  and  know  now  and  always  there  is  for  me  only  one 
love.  In  sunny  ways  or  shadow-checkered  paths,  what- 
ever may  come,  I  cannot  think  other  than  as  I  do  now. 
You  are  life  of  my  life;  and  so  again,  good-night." 

323 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

The  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west  when  Marjie  with 
shining  face  came  slowly  down  Cliff  Street  toward  her 
home.  Near  the  gate  she  met  my  father.  His  keen  eyes 
caught  something  of  the  Marjie  he  had  loved  to  see. 
Something  must  have  happened,  he  knew,  and  his  heart- 
beats quickened  at  the  thought.  Down  the  street  he  had 
met  Judson  with  head  erect  walking  with  a  cocksure 
step. 

The  next  day  the  word  was  brought  directly  to  him  that 
Amos  Judson  and  Marjory  Whately  were  engaged  to  be 
married. 

In  George  Eliot's  story  of  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,"  the 
author  gives  to  one  chapter  the  title,  "  How  a  Hen  Takes 
to  Stratagem."  The  two  cases  are  not  parallel;  and  yet 
I  always  think  of  this  chapter-heading  when  I  recall  what 
followed  Amos  Judson's  admonition  to  Mrs.  Whately,  to 
use  her  influence  in  his  behalf.  When  Marjie's  mother 
had  had  time  to  think  over  what  had  come  about,  her 
conscience  upbraided  her.  Away  from  the  little  widower 
and  with  Marjie  innocent  of  all  the  trouble  —  free-spirited, 
self-dependent  Marjie  —  the  question  of  influence  did  not 
seem  so  easy.  And  yet,  she  knew  Amos  Judson  well 
enough  to  know  that  he  was  already  far  along  in  fulfilling 
his  plans  for  the  future.  For  once  in  her  life  Mrs.  Whately 
resolved  to  act  on  her  own  judgment,  and  to  show  that 
she  had  been  true  to  her  promise  to  use  all  her  influence. 

"  Daughter,  Judge  Baronet  wants  to  see  you  this  after- 
noon. I  'm  going  down  to  his  office  now  on  a  little  mat- 
ter of  business.  Will  you  go  over  and  see  how  Mary 
Gentry's  arm  is,  and  come  up  to  the  courthouse  in  about 
half  an  hour?" 

Mrs.  Whately's  face  was  beaming,  for  she  felt  somehow 
that  my  father  could  help  her  out  of  any  tangle,  and  if 

324 


THE    CLEFT    IN    THE    ROCK 

he  should  advise  Marjie  to  this  step,  it  would  surely  be 
the  right  thing  for  her  to  do. 

"  All  right,  mother,  I  '11  be  there,"  Marjie  answered. 

The  hours  since  she  found  that  precious  letter  had  been 
alternately  full  of  joy  and  sadness.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion in  her  mind  about  the  message  in  the  letter.  But 
now  that  she  was  the  wrong-doer  in  her  own  estimation, 
she  did  not  spare  herself.  She  had  driven  me  away.  She 
had  refused  to  hear  any  explanation  from  me,  she  had 
returned  my  last  note  unopened.  Oh,  she  deserved  all 
that  had  come  to  her.  And  bitterest  of  all  was  the 
thought  that  her  own  letter  that  should  have  righted 
everything  with  me,  I  must  have  taken  from  the  rock. 
How  could  I  ever  care  for  a  girl  so  mean-spirited  and 
cruel  as  she  had  been  to  me  ?  Lottie  could  n't  get  letters 
out,  O'mie  had  said ;  and  in  the  face  of  what  she  had  writ- 
ten, she  had  still  refused  to  see  me,  had  shown  how  jeal- 
ous-hearted and  narrow-minded  she  could  be.  What 
could  I  do  but  leave  town?  So  ran  the  little  girl's  sad 
thoughts;  and  then  hope  had  its  way  again,  for  hers  was 
always  a  sunny  spirit. 

"  I  can  only  wait  and  see  what  will  come.  Phil  is 
proud  and  strong,  and  everybody  loves  him.  He  will 
make  new  friends  and  forget  me." 

And  then  the  words  of  my  letter,  "  In  sunny  ways,  or 
shadow-checkered  paths,  I  cannot  think  of  you  other  than 
as  I  do  now.  You  are  life  of  my  life,"  she  read  over  and 
over.  And  so  with  shining  eyes  and  a  buoyant  step,  she 
went  to  do  her  mother's  bidding  that  afternoon. 

Judge  Baronet  had  had  a  hard  day.  Coupled  with  un- 
usual business  cares  was  the  story  being  quietly  circu- 
lated regarding  Judson's  engagement.  He  had  not 
thought  how  much  his  son's  happiness  could  mean  to 
him* 

325 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  And  yet,  I  let  him  go  to  discipline  him.  Oh,  we  are 
never  wise  enough  to  be  fathers.  It  is  only  a  mother  who 
can  understand,"  and  the  memory  of  the  woman  glorified 
to  him  now,  the  one  love  of  all  his  years,  came  back  to 
him. 

It  was  in  this  mood  that  Mrs.  Whately  found  him. 

"  Judge  Baronet,  I  've  come  to  get  you  to  help  me." 
She  went  straight  to  her  errand  as  soon  as  she  was  seated 
in  the  private  office.  "  Marjie  will  be  here  soon,  and  I 
want  you  to  counsel  her  to  do  what  I  Ve  promised  to  help 
to  bring  about.  She  loves  you  next  to  her  own  father, 
and  you  can  have  great  influence  with  her." 

And  then  directly  and  frankly  came  the  whole  story  of 
Judson's  plan.  Mrs.  Whately  did  not  try  to  keep  any- 
thing back,  not  even  the  effort  to  shield  my  reputation, 
and  she  ended  with  the  assurance  that  it  must  be  best 
for  everybody  for  this  wedding  to  take  place,  and  Amos 
Judson  hoped  it  might  be  soon  to  save  Irving's  name. 

"  I  Ve  not  seen  Marjie  so  happy  in  weeks  as  she  was 
last  night,"  she  added.  "  You  know  Mr.  Tillhurst  has 
been  paying  her  so  much  attention  this  Fall,  and  so  has 
Clayton  Anderson.  And  Amos  has  been  going  to  Con- 
low's  to  see  Lettie  quite  frequently  lately.  I  guess  maybe 
that  has  helped  to  bring  Marjie  around  a  little,  when  she 
found  he  could  go  with  others.  It 's  the  way  with  a  girl, 
you  know.  You  '11  do  what  you  can  to  make  Marjie  see 
the  right  if  she  seems  unwilling  to  do  what  I  Ve  agreed 
she  may  do.  For  after  all,"  Mrs.  Whately  said  thought- 
fully, "  I  can't  feel  sure  she 's  willing,  because  she  never 
did  encourage  Amos  any.  But  you  '11  promise,  won't  you, 
for  the  sake  of  my  husband?  Oh,  could  he  do  wrong! 
I  don't  believe  he  did,  but  he  can't  defend  himself  now, 
and  I  must  protect  Marjie's  name  from  any  dishonor." 

326 


THE     CLEFT     IN     THE     ROCK 

It  was  a  hard  moment  for  the  man  before  her,  the  keen 
discriminating  intelligent  master  of  human  nature.  The 
picture  of  the  battle  field  at  Missionary  Ridge  came  before 
his  eyes,  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  conflict  was  in  his  ears, 
and  Irving  Whately  was  dying  there.  "  I  hope  they  will 
love  each  other.  If  they  do,  give  them  my  blessing." 
Clearly  came  the  words  again  as  they  sounded  on  that 
day.  And  here  was  Irving  Whately's  wife,  Marjie's 
mother,  in  the  innocence  of  her  soul,  asking  that  he  should 
help  to  give  his  friend's  daughter  to  a  man  whom  he  was 
about  to  call  to  judgment  for  heinous  offences.  And 
maybe, —  oh,  God  forbid  it, —  maybe  the  girl  herself  was 
not  unwilling,  since  it  was  meant  for  the  family's  welfare. 
What  else  could  that  look  on  her  face  last  night  have 
meant?  Oh,  he  had  been  a  foolish  father,  over-fond, 
maybe,  of  a  foolish  boy;  but  somehow  he  had  hoped  that 
sweet  smile  and  the  light  in  Marjie's  eyes  might  have 
meant  word  from  Fort  Wallace.  What  he  might  have 
said  to  the  mother,  he  never  knew,  for  Marjie  herself  came 
in  at  that  moment,  and  Mrs.  Whately  took  her  leave  at 
once. 

Marjie  was  never  so  fair  and  womanly  as  now.  The 
brisk  walk  in  the  October  air  had  put  a  pink  bloom  on 
her  cheeks.  Her  hair  lay  in  soft  fluffy  little  waves  about 
her  head,  and  her  big  brown  eyes,  clear  honest  eyes,  were 
full  of  a  radiant  light.  My  father  brought  my  face  and 
form  back  to  her  as  he  always  did,  and  the  last  hand-clasp 
in  that  very  room,  the  last  glance  from  eyes  full  of  love; 
and  the  memory  was  sweet  to  her. 

"  Mother  said  you  wanted  to  see  me,"  she  said,  "  so  I 
came  in." 

My  father  put  her  in  his  big  easy-chair  and  sat  down 
near  her.  His  back  was  toward  the  window,  and  his  face 

327 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

was  shadowed,  while  his  visitor's  face  was  full  in  the 
light. 

"  Yes,  Marjie,  your  mother  has  asked  me  to  talk  with 
you."  I  wonder  at  the  man's  self-control.  "  She  is  plan- 
ning, or  consenting  to  plans  for  your  future,  and  she  wants 
me  to  tell  you  I  approve  them.  You  seem  very  happy 
to-day." 

A  blush  swept  over  the  girl's  face,  and  then  the  blood 
ebbed  back  leaving  it  white  as  marble.  Men  may  abound 
in  wisdom,  but  the  wisest  of  them  may  not  always  in- 
terpret the  swift  bloom  that  lights  the  face  of  a  girl  and 
fades  away  as  swiftly  as  it  comes. 

"  She  is  consenting,"  my  father  assumed. 

"  If  you  are  satisfied  with  the  present  arrangement,  I 
do  not  need  to  say  anything.  I  do  not  want  to,  anyhow. 
I  only  do  it  for  the  sake  of  your  mother,  for  the  sake  of 
the  wife  of  my  best  friend.  For  his  sake  too,  God  bless 
his  memory ! " 

Marjie's  confusion  deepened.  The  words  of  my  letter 
telling  of  her  father's  wishes  were  burning  in  her  brain. 
With  the  thought  of  them,  this  hesitancy  on  the  part  of 
Judge  Baronet  brought  a  chill  that  made  her  shiver. 
Could  it  be  that  her  mother  was  trying  to  influence  my 
father  in  her  favor?  Her  good  judgment  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  her  mother's  sense  of  propriety  forbade  that.  So 
she  only  murmured, 

"  I  don't  understand.  I  have  no  plans.  I  would  do 
anything  for  my  father,  I  don't  know  why  I  should  be 
called  to  say  anything,"  and  then  she  broke  down  en- 
tirely and  sat  white  and  .still  with  downcast  eyes,  her  two 
shapely  little  hands  clenched  together. 

"  Marjie,  this  is  very  embarrassing  for  me,"  my  father 
said  kindly,  "  and  as  I  say,  it  is  only  for  Irving's  sake  I 
speak  at  all.  If  you  feel  you  can  manage  your  own  affairs, 

328 


THE    CLEFT    IN    THE    ROCK 

it  is  not  right  for  anybody  to  interfere,"  how  tender  his 
tones  were,  "but,  my  dear  girl,  maybe  years  and  experi- 
ence can  give  me  the  right  to  say  a  word  or  two  for  the 
sake  of  the  friendship  that  has  always  been  between  us, 
a  friendship  future  relations  will  of  necessity  limit  to  a 
degree.  But  if  you  have  your  plans  all  settled,  I  wish  to 
know  it.  It  will  change  the  whole  course  of  some  proceed- 
ings I  have  been  preparing  ever  since  the  war ;  and  I  want 
to  know,  too,  this  much  for  the  sake  of  the  man  who  died 
in  my  arms.  I  want  to  know  if  you  are  perfectly  satisfied 
to  accept  the  life  now  opening  to  you." 

Marjie  had  seen  my  father  every  day  since  I  left  home. 
Every  day  he  had  spoken  to  her,  and  a  silent  sort  of  paren- 
tal and  filial  love  had  grown  up  between  the  two.  The 
sudden  break  in  it  had  come  to  both  now. 

Women  also  may  abound  in  wisdom  but  the  wisest  of 
them  may  not  always  interpret  correctly. 

"  He  had  planned  for  Phil  to  marry  Rachel,  had  sent 
him  East  on  purpose.  He  was  so  polite  to  her  when  she 
was  here.  I  have  broken  up  his  plans  and  his  friendship 
is  to  be  limited."  So  ran  the  girl's  thoughts.  "  But  I 
have  no  plans.  I  don't  know  what  he  means.  Nothing 
new  is  opening  to  me." 

A  new  phase  of  womanhood  began  suddenly  for  her,  a 
call  for  self-dependence,  for  a  judgment  of  her  own,  not 
the  acceptance  of  events.  When  she  spoke  again,  her 
sweet  voice  had  a  clear  ring  in  it  that  startled  the  man  be- 
fore her. 

"  Judge  Baronet,  I  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking 
about.  I  do  not  know  of  any  plans  for  the  future.  I  do 
not  know  what  mother  said  to  you.  If  I  am  concerned 
in  the  plans  you  speak  of,  I  have  a  right  to  know  what 
they  are.  If  you  are  asked  to  approve  of  my  doing,  I 
certainly  ought  to  know  of  what  you  mean  to  approve." 

329 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

She  had  risen  from  her  chair  and  was  standing  before 
him.  Oh,  she  was  pretty,  and  with  this  grace  of  womanly 
self-control,  her  beauty  and  her  dignity  combined  into  a 
new  charm. 

"  Sit  down,  Marjie,"  my  father  said  in  kind  command. 
"  You  know  the  purpose  of  Amos  Judson's  visit  with  your 
mother  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Business,  I  suppose,"  Marjie  answered  carelessly,  "  I 
am  not  admitted  to  these  conferences."  She  smiled. 
"  You  know  I  wanted  to  talk  with  you  about  some  busi- 
ness affairs  some  time  ago,  but — " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  understand,"  my  father  assured  her. 
They  both  remembered  only  too  well  what  had  happened 
in  that  room  on  her  last  visit.  For  she  had  not  been  in- 
side of  the  courthouse  since  the  day  of  Rachel's  sudden 
appearance  there. 

"  Judge  Baronet  thinks  I  have  nothing  to  bring  Phil. 
I've  heard  everywhere  how  Phil  wants  a  rich  wife,  and 
yet  the  Baronets  have  more  property  than  anybody  else 
here."  So  Marjie  concluded  mentally  and  then  she  asked 
innocently : 

"  How  can  Amos  Judson's  visit  make  this  call  here 
necessary?  " 

At  last  the  light  broke  in.  "She  doesn't  know  any- 
thing yet,  that 's  certain.  But,  by  heavens,  she  must  know. 
It 's  her  right  to  know,"  my  father  thought. 

"  Marjie,  your  mother,  in  the  goodness  of  her  heart, 
and  because  of  some  sad  and  bitter  circumstances,  came 
here  to-day  to  ask  me  to  talk  with  you.  I  do  this  for  her 
sake.  You  must  not  misunderstand  me."  He  laid  his 
hand  a  moment  on  her  arm,  lying  on  the  table. 

And  then  he  told  her  all  that  her  mother  had  told  to  him. 
Told  it  without  comment  or  coloring,  sparing  neither 
Phil,  nor  himself  nor  her  father  in  the  recital.  If  ever 

330 


THE     CLEFT     IN     THE     ROCK 

a  story  was  correctly  reported  in  word  and  spirit,  this  one 
was. 

"  She  shall  have  Judson's  side  straight  from  me  first, 
and  we  '11  depend  on  events  for  further  statement,"  he 
declared  to  himself. 

"  Now,  little  girl,  I  'm  asked  to  urge  you  for  your  own 
good  name,  for  your  mother's  maintenance,  and  your  own, 
for  the  sake  of  that  boy  of  mine,  and  for  my  own  good,  as 
well,  and  most  of  all  for  the  sake  of  your  father's  memory, 
revered  here  as  no  other  man  who  ever  lived  in  Spring- 
vale  —  for  all  these  reasons,  I  'm  asked  to  urge  you  to 
take  this  man  for  your  husband." 

He  was  standing  before  her  now,  strong,  dignified, 
handsome,  courteous.  Nature's  moulds  hold  not  many 
such  as  he.  Before  him  rose  up  Marjie.  Her  cloak  had 
fallen  from  her  shoulders,  and  lay  over  the  arm  of  her 
chair.  Looking  steadily  into  his  face  with  eyes  that  never 
wavered  in  their  gaze,  she  replied: 

"  I  may  be  poor,  but  I  can  work  for  mother  and  my- 
self. I  'm  not  afraid  to  work.  You  and  your  son  may 
have  done  wrong.  If  you  have,  I  cannot  cover  it  by  any 
act  of  mine,  not  even  if  I  died  for  you.  I  don't  believe 
you  have  done  wrong.  I  do  not  believe  one  word  of  the 
stories  about  Phil.  He  may  want  to  marry  a  rich  girl," 
her  voice  wavered  here,  "  but  that  is  his  choice ;  it  is  no 
sin.  And  as  to  protecting  my  father's  name,  Judge  Bar- 
onet, it  needs  no  protection.  Before  Heaven,  he  never 
did  a  dishonest  thing  in  all  his  life.  There  has  been  a 
tangling  of  his  affairs  by  somebody,  but  that  does  not 
change  the  truth.  The  surest  way  to  bring  dishonor  to 
his  name  is  for  me  to  marry  a  man  I  do  not  and  could 
not  love;  a  man  I  believe  to  be  dishonest  in  money  mat- 
ters, and  false  to  everybody.  It  is  no  disgrace  to  work 
for  a  living  here  in  Kansas.  Better  girls  than  I  am  do  it. 

33i 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

But  it  is  a  disgrace  here  and  through  all  eternity  to  sell 
my  soul.  As  I  hope  to  see  my  father  again,  I  believe  he 
would  not  welcome  me  to  him  if  I  did.  Good  and  just  as 
you  are,  you  are  using  your  influence  all  in  vain  on  me." 

Judge  Baronet  felt  his  soul  expand  with  every  word  she 
uttered.  Passing  round  the  table,  he  took  both  her  cold 
hands  in  his  strong,  warm  palms. 

"  My  daughter,"  neither  he  nor  the  girl  misunderstood 
the  use  of  the  word  here,  "  my  dear,  dear  girl,  you  are 
worthy  of  the  man  who  gave  up  his  life  on  Missionary 
Ridge  to  save  his  country.  God  bless  you  for  the  true- 
hearted,  noble  woman  that  you  are."  He  gently  stroked 
the  curly  brown  locks  away  from  her  forehead,  and 
stooping  kissed  it,  softly,  as  he  would  kiss  the  brow  of 
a  saint. 

Marjie  sank  down  in  her  seat,  and  as  she  did  so  my 
letter  fell  from  the  pocket  of  the  cloak  she  had  thrown 
aside.  As  Judge  Baronet  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  he  caught 
sight  of  my  well-known  handwriting  on  the  envelope. 
He  looked  up  quickly  and  their  eyes  met.  The  wild  roses 
were  in  her  cheeks  now,  and  the  dew  of  teardrops  on  her 
downcast  lashes.  He  said  not  a  word,  but  laid  the  letter 
face  downward  in  her  lap.  She  put  it  in  her  pocket  and 
rose  to  go. 

"  If  you  need  me,  Marjie,  I  have  a  force  to  turn  loose 
against  your  enemies,  and  ours.  And  you  will  need  me. 
As  a  man  in  this  community  I  can  assure  you  of  that. 
You  never  needed  friends  as  you  will  in  the  days  be- 
fore you  now.  I  am  ready  at  your  call.  And  let  me  as- 
sure you  also,  that  in  the  final  outcome,  there  is  nothing  to 
fear.  Good-bye." 

He  looked  down  into  her  upturned  face.  Something 
neither  would  have  put  into  words  came  to  both,  and  the 
same  picture  came  before  each  mind.  It  was  the  picture  of 

332 


THE    CLEFT    IN    THE    ROCK 

a  young  soldier  out  at  Fort  Wallace,  gathering  back  the 
strength  the  crucial  test  of  a  Plains  campaign  had  cost 
him. 

"  There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay,"  my  father  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  watched  Marjie  passing  down  the  leaf-strewn 
walk,  "  but  not  a  hair  of  her  head  shall  suffer.  When  the 
time  comes,  I  '11  send  for  Judson,  as  I  promised  to  do." 

And  Marjie,  holding  the  letter  in  her  hand  thrust  deep 
in  her  cloak  pocket,  felt  strength  and  hope  and  courage 
pulsing  in  her  veins,  and  a  peace  that  she  had  not  known 
for  many  days  came  with  its  blessing  to  her  troubled 
soul. 


333 


CHAPTER    XXI 
THE    CALL    TO     SERVICE 

We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men  on  Freedom's  Southern  line, 
And  plant  beside  the  cotton-tree  the  rugged  Northern  pine! 

—  WHITTIER. 


BARONET,  you  thon  of  a  horthe-thief, 
where  have  you  been  keeping  yourthelf?  We've 
been  waiting  here  thinthe  Thummer  before  latht  to  meet 
you." 

That  was  Bud  Anderson's  greeting.  Pink-cheeked, 
sturdy,  and  stubby  as  a  five-year-old,  he  was  standing  in 
my  path  as  I  slipped  from  my  horse  in  front  of  old  Fort 
Hays  one  October  day  a  fortnight  after  the  rescue  of 
Colonel  Forsyth's  little  company. 

"  Bud,  you  tow-headed  infant,  how  the  dickens  and 
tomhill  did  you  manage  to  break  into  good  society  out 
here?"  I  cried,  as  we  clinched  in  each  other's  arms,  for 
Bud's  appearance  was  food  to  my  homesick  hunger. 

"When  you  git  through,  I'm  nixt  into  the  barber's 
chair." 

I  had  not  noticed  O'mie  leaning  against  a  post  beside 
the  way,  until  that  Irish  brogue  announced  him. 

"Why,  boys,  what's  all  this  delegation  mean?" 

"Aw,"  O'mie  drawled.  "You've  been  elected  to 
Congress  and  we  're  the  proud  committy  av  citizens  in 
civilians'  clothes,  come  to  inform  you  av  your  elevation." 

"  You  mean  you  've  come  to  get  first  promise  of  an 

334 


THE    CALL    TO     SERVICE 

office  under  me.  Sorry,  but  I  know  you  too  well  to 
jeopardize  the  interest  of  the  Republican  party  and  the 
good  name  of  Kansas  by  any  rash  promises.  It's  dinner 
time,  and  I'm  hungry.  I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  get 
enough  to  eat  again." 

Oh,  it  was  good  to  see  them,  albeit  our  separation  had 
amounted  to  hardly  sixty  days.  Bud  had  been  waiting 
for  me  almost  a  week;  and  O'mie,  to  Bud's  surprise,  had 
come  upon  him  unannounced  that  morning.  The  dining- 
room  was  crowded;  and  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over  we 
went  outside  and  sat  down  together  where  we  could  visit 
our  fill  unmolested.  They  wanted  to  know  about  my 
doings,  but  I  was  too  eager  to  hear  all  the  home  news 
to  talk  of  myself. 

"  Everybody  all  right  when  I  left,"  Bud  asserted.  "  I 
got  off  a  few  dayth  before  thith  mitherable  thon  of  Erin. 
Did  n't  know  he  'd  tag  me,  or  I  'd  have  gone  to  Canada." 
He  gave  O'mie  an  affectionate  slap  on  the  shoulder  as 
he  spoke. 

"  Your  father  and  Aunt  Candace  are  well,  and  glad  you 
came  out  of  the  campaign  you  've  been  makin'  a  record 
av  unfadin'  glory  in.  Judge  Baronet  was  the  last  man  I 
saw  when  I  left  town,"  O'mie  said. 

"Why,  where  was  Uncle  Cam?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  pretendin'  to  be  busy  somewheres.  Awful  busy 
man,  that  Cam  Gentry."  O'mie  smiled  at  the  remem- 
brance. He  knew  why  tender-hearted  Cam  had  fled  from 
a  good-bye  scene.  "  Dave  Mead  's  goin'  to  start  to  Cali- 
fornia in  a  few  days."  He  rattled  on,  "  The  church  sup- 
per in  October  was  the  biggest  they  've  had  yet.  Dever  's 
got  a  boil  on  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  Jim  Conlow  's 
drivin'  stage  for  him.  Jim  had  a  good  job  in  Topeka,  but 
come  back  to  Springvale.  Can't  keep  the  Conlows  cor- 
ralled anywhere  else.  Everybody  else  is  doing  fine  ex- 

335. 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

cept  Grandma  Mead.  She 's  failin'.  Old  town  looked 
pretty  good  to  me  when  I  looked  back  at  it  from  the  east 
bluff  of  the  Neosho." 

It  had  looked  good  to  each  one  of  us  at  the  same  place 
when  each  started  out  to  try  the  West  alone.  Somehow 
we  did  not  care  to  talk,  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  What  brought  you  out  here,  Bud  ?  "  I  asked  to  break 
the  spell. 

"  Oh,  three  or  four  thingth.  I  wanted  to  thee  you," 
Bud  answered.  "  You  never  paid  me  that  fifteen  thenth 
you  borrowed  before  you  went  to  college." 

"  And  then,"  he  continued,  "  the  old  town  on  the 
Neosho  'th  too  thmall  for  me.  Our  family  ith  related  to 
the  Daniel  Boone  tribe  of  Indianth,  and  can't  have  too  big 
a  crowd  around.  Three  children  of  the  family  are  at 
home,  and  I  wanted  to  come  out  here  anyhow.  I  'd  like 
to  live  alwayth  on  the  Plainth  and  have  a  quiet  grave  at 
the  end  of  the  trail  where  the  wind  blowth  thteady  over 
me  day  after  day." 

We  were  lounging  against  the  side  of  the  low  building 
now  in  the  warm  afternoon  sunshine,  and  Bud's  eyes 
were  gazing  absently  out  across  the  wide  Plains.  Al- 
though I  had  been  away  from  home  only  two  months,  I 
felt  twenty  years  older  than  this  fair-haired,  chubby  boy, 
sitting  there  so  full  of  blooming  life  and  vigor.  I  shiv- 
ered at  the  picture  his  words  suggested. 

"  Don't  joke,  Bud.  There 's  a  grave  at  the  end  of  most 
of  the  trails  out  here.  The  trails  are  n't  very  long,  some 
of  'em.  The  wind  sweeps  over  'em  lonely  and  sad  day 
after  day.  They  're  quiet  enough,  Heaven  knows.  The 
wrangle  and  noise  are  all  on  the  edge  of  'em,  just  as 
you  're  getting  ready  to  get  in." 

"  I  'm  not  joking,  Phil.  All  my  life  I  have  wanted  to 
get  out  here.  It  'th  a  fever  in  the  blood." 

336 


THE    CALL    TO     SERVICE 

We  talked  a  while  of  the  frontier,  of  the  chances  of  war, 
and  of  the  Indian  raids  with  their  trail  of  destruction, 
death,  torture  and  captivity  of  unspeakable  horror. 

The  closing  years  of  the  decade  of  the  sixties  in  Ameri- 
can history  saw  the  closing  events  of  the  long  and  bitter, 
but  hopeless  struggle  of  a  savage  race  against  a  superior 
civilized  force.  From  the  southern  bound  of  British 
America  to  the  northern  bound  of  old  Mexico  the  Plains 
warfare  was  waged. 

The  Western  tribes,  the  Cheyenne  and  Arapahoe, 
and  Kiowa,  and  Brule,  and  Sioux  and  Comanche  were 
forced  to  quarter  themselves  on  their  reservations  again 
and  again  with  rations  and  clothing  and  equipments  for 
all  their  needs.  With  fair,  soft  promises  in  return  from 
their  chief  men  these  tribes  settled  purringly  in  their  al- 
lotted places.  Through  each  fall  and  winter  season  they 
were  "good  Indians,"  wards  of  the  nation;  their  "un- 
tutored mind  saw  God  in  clouds,  or  heard  him  in  the 
wind." 

Eastern  churches  had  an  "Indian  fund"  in  their  con- 
tribution boxes,  and  very  pathetic  and  beautifully  idyllic 
was  the  story  the  sentimentalists  told,  the  story  of  the 
Indian  as  he  looked  in  books  and  spoke  on  paper.  But 
the  Plains  had  another  record,  and  the  light  called  His- 
tory is  pitiless.  When  the  last  true  story  is  written  out, 
it  has  no  favoring  shadows  for  sentimentalists  who  feel 
more  than  they  know. 

Each  Winter  the  "  good  Indians  "  were  mild  and  gentle. 
But  with  the  warmth  of  Spring  and  the  fruitfulness  of 
summer,  with  the  green  grasses  of  the  Plains  for  their 
ponies,  with  wild  game  in  the  open,  and  the  labor  of  the 
industrious  settler  of  the  unprotected  frontier  as  a  stake 
for  the  effort,  the  "  good  Indian "  came  forth  from  his 
reservation.  Like  the  rattlesnake  from  its  crevice,  he 
22  337 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

uncoiled  in  the  warm  sunshine,  grew  and  flourished  on 
what  lay  in  his  pathway,  and  full  of  deadly  venom  he 
made  a  trail  of  terror  and  death. 

This  sort  of  thing  went  on  year  after  year  until,  in  the 
late  Summer  of  1868,  the  crimes  of  the  savages  culminated 
in  those  terrible  raids  through  western  Kansas,  whose 
full  particulars  even  the  official  war  records  deem  unfit  to 
print. 

Such  were  the  times  the  three  of  us  from  Springvale 
were  discussing  on  the  south  side  of  the  walls  of  old  Fort 
Hays  in  the  warm  sunshine  of  an  October  afternoon. 

We  were  new  to  the  Plains  and  we  did  not  dream  of  the 
tragedies  that  were  taking  place  not  many  miles  away 
from  the  shadow  of  the  Fort  on  that  October  afternoon, 
tragedies  whose  crimes  we  three  would  soon  be  called 
forth  to  help  to  avenge.  For  even  as  we  lounged  idly 
there  in  the  soft  sunshine,  and  looked  away  through 
shimmering  seas  of  autumn  haze  toward  the  still  land 
where  Bud  was  to  find  his  quiet  grave  at  the  end  of  the 
trail  —  as  we  talked  of  the  frontier  and  its  needs,  up 
in  the  Saline  Valley,  a  band  of  Indians  was  creeping 
stealthily  upon  a  cornfield  where  a  young  man  was  gath- 
ering corn.  In  his  little  home  just  out  of  sight  was  a 
pretty,  golden-haired  girl,  the  young  settler's  bride  of  a 
few  months.  Through  the  window  she  caught  sight  of 
her  husband's  horse  racing  wildly  toward  the  house.  She 
did  not  know  that  her  husband,  wounded  and  helpless, 
lay  by  the  river  bank,  pierced  by  Indian  arrows.  Only 
one  thought  was  hers,  the  thought  that  her  husband  had 
been  hurt  —  maybe  killed  —  in  a  runaway.  What  else 
could  this  terrified  horse  with  its  flying  harness  ends 
mean?  She  rushed  from  the  house  and  started  toward 
the  field. 

338 


THE     CALL    TO     SERVICE 

A  shout  of  fiendish  glee  fell  on  her  ears.  She  was 
surrounded  by  painted  savage  men,  human  devils,  who 
caught  her  by  the  arms,  dragged  her  about  by  her  long 
silky,  golden  hair,  beat  her  brutally  in  her  struggles  to 
free  herself,  bound  her  at  last,  and  thrusting  her  on  a 
pony,  rode  as  only  Indians  ride,  away  toward  the  sunset. 
And  their  captive,  the  sweet  girl-wife  of  gentle  birth  and 
gentle  rearing,  the  happy-hearted  young  home-maker  on 
the  prairie  frontier,  singing  about  her  work  an  hour  be- 
fore, dreaming  of  the  long,  bright  years  with  her  loved 
one  —  God  pity  her !  For  her  the  gates  of  a  living  Hell 
had  swung  wide  open,  and  she,  helpless  and  horror- 
stricken,  was  being  dragged  through  them  into  a  perdi- 
tion no  pen  can  picture.  And  so  they  rode  away  toward 
the  sunset. 

On  and  on  they  went  through  days  and  days  of  un- 
utterable blackness,  of  suffering  and  despair.  On,  until 
direction  and  space  were  lost  to  measure.  For  her  a  new, 
pitiless,  far-off  heaven  looked  down  on  a  new  agonized 
earth.  The  days  ran  into  months,  and  no  day  had  in  it  a 
ray  of  hope,  a  line  of  anything  but  misery. 

And  again  beyond  the  Saline,  where  the  little  streams 
turn  toward  the  Republican  River,  in  another  household 
the  same  tragedy  of  the  times  was  being  played,  with  all 
its  settings  of  terror  and  suffering.  Here  the  grown-up 
daughter  of  the  home,  a  girl  of  eighteen  years,  was 
wrenched  from  arms  that  clung  to  her,  and,  bound  on 
a  pony's  back,  was  hurried  three  hundred  miles  away  into 
an  unknown  land.  For  her  began  the  life  of  a  slave. 
She  was  the  victim  of  brute  lust,  the  object  of  the  venge- 
ful jealousy  of  the  squaws.  The  starved,  half -naked, 
wretched  girl,  whose  eighteen  years  had  been  protected 
in  the  shelter  of  a  happy  Christian  home,  was  now  the 

339 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

captive  laborer  whose  tasks  strong  men  would  stagger 
under.  God's  providence  seemed  far  away  in  those  days 
of  the  winning  of  the  prairie. 

Fate,  by  and  by,  threw  these  two  women  together. 
Their  one  ray  of  comfort  was  the  sight  of  one  another. 
And  for  both  the  days  dragged  heavily  by,  the  two  women 
of  my  boyhood's  dreams.  Women  of  whose  fate  I  knew 
nothing  as  we  sat  by  the  south  side  of  old  Fort  Hays 
that  afternoon  forty  years  ago. 

"Did  you  know,  boys,  that  General  Sheridan  is  not 
going  to  let  those  tribes  settle  down  to  a  quiet  winter 
as  they  've  been  allowed  to  do  every  year  since  they  were 
put  on  their  reservations?"  I  asked  O'mie  and  Bud. 
"  I  Ve  been  here  long  enough  to  find  out  that  these  men 
out  here  won't  stand  for  it  any  longer,"  I  went  on. 
"They're  MEN  on  these  Plains,  who  are  doing  this 
homesteading  up  and  down  these  river  valleys,  and  you 
write  every  letter  of  the  word  with  a  capital." 

"What'th  going  to  be  done?"  Bud  queried. 

"  Sheridan  's  going  to  carry  a  campaign  down  into  their 
own  country  and  lick  these  tribes  into  behaving  them- 
selves right  now,  before  another  Summer  and  another  out- 
break like  that  one  two  months  ago." 

"What's  these  Kansas  men  with  their  capital  letters 
got  to  do  with  it?"  put  in  O'mie. 

"  Governor  Crawford  has  issued  a  call  at  Sheridan's 
command,  for  a  Kansas  regiment  to  go  into  service  for 
six  months,  and  help  to  do  this  thing  up  right.  It  means 
more  to  these  settlers  on  the  boundary  out  here  than  to 
anybody  else.  And  you  just  see  if  that  regiment  isn't 
made  up  in  a  hurry." 

I  was  full  of  my  theme.  My  two  months  beyond  the 
soft,  sheltered  life  of  home  had  taught  me  much ;  and  then 
I  was  young  and  thought  I  knew  much,  anyhow. 

340 


THE    CALL    TO     SERVICE 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Phil?"  O'mie  asked. 

"I?  I'm  going  to  stay  by  this  thing  for  a  while. 
The  Baronets  were  always  military  folks.  I  'm  the  last 
of  the  line,  and  I  'm  going  to  give  my  fighting  strength, 
what  little  I  have,  to  buy  these  prairies  for  homes  and 
civilization.  I  'm  going  to  see  the  Indian  rule  broken 
here,  or  crawl  into  the  lonely  grave  Bud  talks  about  and 
pull  the  curly  mesquite  over  me  for  a  coverlet.  I  go  to 
Topeka  to-morrow  to  answer  Governor  Crawford's  call 
for  volunteers  for  a  cavalry  company  to  go  out  on  a  win- 
ter campaign  against  the  rascally  redskins.  They  're  go- 
ing to  get  what  they  need.  If  you  mix  up  with  Custer, 
you  '11  see." 

"  And  when  the  campaign 's  over,"  queried  O'mie, 
"will  you  stay  in  the  army?" 

"No,  O'mie,  I'll  find  a  place.  The  world  is  wide. 
But  look  here,  boy.  You  haven't  told  me  how  you  got 
pried  loose  and  kicked  out  yet.  Bud 's  an  exception. 
The  rest  of  us  boys  had  a  reason  for  leaving  the  best 
town  on  earth." 

"  You  're  just  right,  begorra ! "  O'mie  replied  with 
warmth.  "  I  was  kicked  out  av  town  by  His  Majesty,  the 
prophet  Amos,  only  you  've  got  to  spell  it  with  an  '  f '  in- 
stead av  a  '  ph.'  " 

"  Now,  O'mie,  confess  the  whole  sin  at  once,  please." 

O'mie  looked  up  with  that  sunshiny  face  that  never 
stayed  clouded  long,  and  chuckled  softly.  "  Judson  's  on 
the  crest  right  now.  Oh,  let  him  ride.  He  's  doomed,  so 
let  him  have  his  little  strut.  He  comes  to  me  a  few  days 
backward  into  the  gone  on,  and  says,  says  he,  important 
and  commercial  like,  '  O'mie,  I  shall  not  need  you  any 
more.  I  've  got  a  person  to  take  your  place/  '  All  right,' 
I  responds,  respectful,  *  just  as  you  please.  When  shall 
I  lave  off  ?  '  '  To-morrow  mornin','  he  answers,  an'  looks 

341 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

at  me  as  if  to  say,  *  Nothin'  left  for  you  but  the  poor- 
house/  And  indade,  a  clerk  under  Judson  don't  make  no 
such  bank  account  as  he  made  under  Irving  Whately.  I 
ain't  ready  to  retire  yet." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  because  Amos  Judson 
turned  you  off  and  cut  you  out  of  his  will,  you  had  to 
come  out  to  this  forsaken  land?  I  thought  better  of  the 
town,"  I  declared. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  mind !  Cris  Mead  offered  me  a  place 
in  the  bank.  Dr.  Hemingway  was  fur  havin*  me  fill  his 
pulpit  off  an*  on.  He  's  gettin'  old.  An*  Judge  Baronet 
was  all  but  ready  to  adopt  me  in  the  place  av  a  son  he  'd 
lost.  But  I  knowed  the  boy 'd  soon  be  back." 

O'mie  gave  me  a  sidelong  glance,  but  I  gave  no  hint 
of  any  feeling. 

"  No,  I  was  like  Bud,  ready  to  try  the  frontier,"  he 
added  more  seriously.  "  I  *m  goin*  down  with  you  to 
join  this  Kansas  regiment." 

"  Now  what  the  deuce  can  you  do  in  the  army,  O'mie?  " 
I  could  not  think  of  him  anywhere  but  in  Springvale. 

"  I  want  to  live  out  av  doors  till  I  get  rid  av  this 
cough,"  he  answered.  "  And  ye  know  I  can  do  a  stunt 
in  the  band.  Don't  take  giants  to  fiddle  and  fife.  Little 
runts  can  do  that.  Who  do  you  reckon  come  to  Spring- 
vale  last  month?" 

"  Give  it  up,"  I  answered. 

"  Father  Le  Claire." 

"  Oh,  the  good  man !  "  Bud  exclaimed. 

"Where  has  he  been?  and  where  was  he  going?"  I 
asked  coldly. 

O'mie  looked  at  me  curiously.  He  was  shrewder  than 
Bud,  and  he  caught  the  tone  I  had  meant  to  conceal. 

"Where?  Just  now  he's  gone  to  St.  Louis.  He's 
in  a  hospital  there.  He  's  been  sick.  I  never  saw  him 

342 


THE    CALL    TO     SERVICE 

so  white  and  thin  as  whin  he  left.  He  told  me  he  ex- 
pected to  be  with  the  Osages  this  Winter." 

"  I  'm  glad  of  that,"  I  remarked. 

"Why?"  O'mie  spoke  quickly. 

"  Oh,  I  was  afraid  he  might  go  out  West.  It 's  hard 
On  priests  in  the  West." 

O'mie  looked  steadily  at  me,  but  said  nothing. 

"Who  taketh  your  plathe,  O'mie?"  Bud  asked. 

"That's  the  beauty  av  it.  It's  a  lady,"  O'mie  an- 
swered. 

Somehow  my  heart  grew  sick.  Could  it  be  Marjie,  I 
wondered.  I  knew  money  matters  were  a  problem  with 
the  Whatelys,  but  I  had  hoped  for  better  fortune  through 
my  father's  help.  Maybe,  though,  they  would  have  none 
of  him  now  any  more  than  of  myself.  When  Marjie  and 
I  were  engaged  I  did  not  care  for  her  future,  for  it  was 
to  be  with  me,  and  my  burden  was  my  joy  then.  Not 
that  earning  a  living  meant  any  disgrace  to  the  girl.  We 
all  learned  better  than  that  early  in  the  West. 

"Well,  who  be  thaid  lady?"  Bud  questioned. 

"  Miss  Letitia  Conlow,"  O'mie  answered  with  a  grave 
face. 

"  Oh,  well,  don't  grieve,  O'mie ;  it  might  be  worse. 
Cheer  up !  "  I  said  gayly. 

"  It  could  n't  be,  by  George !  It  just  could  n't  be  no 
worse."  O'mie  was  more  than  grave,  he  was  sad  now. 
"Not  for  me,  bedad!  I'm  glad."  He  breathed  deeply 
of  the  sweet,  pure  air  of  the  Plains.  "  I  can  live  out  here 
foine,  but  there  's  goin'  to  be  the  divil  to  pay  in  the  town 
av  Springvale  in  the  nixt  six  months.  I  'm  glad  to  be 
away." 

The  next  day  I  left  the  fort  for  Topeka.  My  determina- 
tion to  stay  in  the  struggle  was  not  merely  a  young  man's 
love  of  adventure,  nor  was  my  declaration  of  what  would 

343 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

be  done  to  the  Indian  tribes  an  idle  boast.  The  tragic 
days  of  Kansas  were  not  all  in  its  time  of  territorial  strife 
and  border  ruffianism.  The  story  of  the  Western  Plains 
—  the  short  grass  country  we  call  it  now  —  in  the  decade 
following  the  Civil  War  is  a  tragedy  of  unparalleled  suf- 
fering and  danger  and  heroism.  In  the  cold  calculation 
of  the  official  reports  the  half-year  I  had  entered  on  has 
its  tabulated  record  of  one  hundred  and  fifty-eight  men 
murdered,  sixteen  wounded,  forty-one  scalped,  fourteen 
women  tortured,  four  women  and  twenty-four  children 
carried  into  captivity.  And  nearly  all  this  record  was 
made  in  the  Saline  and  Solomon  and  Republican  River 
valleys  in  Kansas. 

The  Summer  of  the  preceding  year  a  battalion  of  sol- 
diers called  the  Eighteenth  Kansas  Cavalry  spent  four 
months  on  the  Plains.  Here  they  met  and  fought  two 
deadly  foes,  the  Indians  and  the  Asiatic  cholera.  Theirs 
was  a  record  of  bravery  and  endurance;  and  their  com- 
mander, Major  Horace  L.  Moore,  keeps  always  a  place 
in  my  own  private  hall  of  fame. 

Winter  had  made  good  Indians  out  of  the  savage 
wretches,  as  usual;  but  the  Summer  of  1868  brought  that 
official  count  of  tragedy  with  all  the  unwritten  horror 
that  history  cannot  burden  itself  to  carry.  Only  one 
thing  seemed  feasible  now,  to  bear  the  war  straight  into 
the  heart  of  the  Indian  country  in  a  winter  campaign,  to 
deal  an  effectual  blow  to  the  scourge  of  the  Plains,  this 
awful  menace  to  the  frontier  homes.  General  Sheridan 
had  asked  Kansas  to  furnish  a  cavalry  regiment  for 
United  States  military  service  for  six  months. 

The  capital  city  was  a  wide-awake  place  that  October. 
The  call  for  twelve  hundred  men  was  being  answered  by 
the  veterans  of  the  Plains  and  by  the  young  men  of 

344 


THE     CALL    TO     SERVICE 

Kansas.  The  latter  took  up  the  work  as  many  a  volun- 
teer in  the  Civil  War  began  it  —  in  a  sort  of  heyday  of 
excitement  and  achievement.  They  gave  little  serious 
thought  to  the  cost,  or  the  history  their  record  was  to 
make.  But  in  the  test  that  followed  they  stood,  as  the 
soldiers  of  the  nation  had  stood  before  them,  courageous, 
unflinching  to  the  last.  Little  notion  had  those  rollicking 
young  fellows  of  what  lay  before  them  —  a  winter  cam- 
paign in  a  strange  country  infested  by  a  fierce  and  cun- 
ning foe  who  observed  no  etiquette  of  civilized  warfare. 

At  the  Teft  House,  where  Bud  and  O'mie  and  I  stopped, 
I  met  Richard  Tillhurst.  We  greeted  each  other  cor- 
dially enough. 

"  So  you  're  here  to  enlist,  too,"  he  said.  "  I  thought 
maybe  you  were  on  your  way  home.  I  am  going  to 
enlist  myself  and  give  up  teaching  altogether  if  I  can 
pass  muster."  He  was  hardly  of  the  physical  build  for 
a  soldier.  "  Have  you  heard  the  news? "  he  went  on. 
"  Judson  and  Marjory  are  engaged.  Marjie  does  n't  speak 
of  it,  of  course,  but  Judson  told  Dr.  Hemingway  and 
asked  him  to  officiate  when  the  time  comes.  Mrs. 
Whately  says  it 's  between  the  young  people,  and  that 
means  she  has  given  her  consent.  Judson  spends 
half  his  time  at  Whately's,  whether  Marjie 's  there  or 
not.  There  's  something  in  the  air  down  there  this  Fall 
that's  got  everybody  keyed  up  one  way  or  another. 
Tell  Mapleson  's  been  like  a  boy  at  a  circus,  he 's  so 
pleased  over  something;  and  Conlow  has  a  grin  on  his 
face  all  the  time.  Everybody  seems  just  unsettled  and 
anxious,  except  Judge  Baronet.  Honestly,  I  don't  see 
how  that  town  could  keep  balanced  without  him.  He 
sails  along  serene  and  self-possessed.  Always  knows 
more  than  he  tells." 

345 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

"  I  guess  Springvale  is  safe  with  him,  and  we  can  go 
out  and  save  the  frontier,"  I  said  carelessly. 

"  For  goodness*  sake,  who  goes  there  ? "  Tillhurst 
pushed  me  aside  and  made  a  rush  out  of  doors,  as  a 
lady  passed  before  the  windows.  I  followed  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  black  hair  and  handsome  form  of  Rachel 
Melrose.  At  the  same  moment  she  saw  me.  Her  greet- 
ing lacked  a  little  of  its  former  warmth,  but  her  utter 
disregard  of  anything  unpleasant  having  been  between 
us  was  positively  admirable.  Her  most  coquettish  smiles, 
however,  were  for  Tillhurst,  but  that  did  n't  trouble  me. 
Our  interview  was  cut  short  by  the  arrival  of  the  stage 
from  the  south  just  then,  and  I  turned  from  Tillhurst  to 
find  myself  in  my  father's  embrace.  What  followed 
makes  one  of  the  sacred  memories  a  man  does  not  often 
put  into  print. 

We  wanted  to  be  alone,  so  we  left  the  noisy  hotel  and 
strolled  out  toward  the  higher  level  beyond  the  town. 
There  was  only  brown  prairie  then  stretching  to  the 
westward  and  dipping  down  with  curve  and  ravine  to 
the  Kaw  River  on  the  one  side  and  the  crooked  little 
Shunganunga  Creek  on  the  other.  Away  in  the  south- 
west the  graceful  curve  of  Burnett's  Mound,  a  low  height 
like  a  tiny  mountain-peak,  stood  out  purple  and  hazy  in 
the  October  sunlight.  A  handful  of  sturdy  young  people 
were  taking  their  way  to  Lincoln  College,  the  little  stone 
structure  that  was  to  be  dignified  a  month  later  by  a  new 
title,  Washburn  College,  in  honor  of  its  great  benefactor, 
Ichabod  Washburn. 

"Why  did  the  powers  put  the  State  Capitol  and  the 
College  so  far  from  town,  I  wonder,"  I  said  as  we  loitered 
about  the  walls  of  the  former. 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  the  shortsighted  colonists 
of  the  Revolution  put  Washington  away  off  up  the  Po- 

346 


THE    CALL    TO     SERVICE 

tomac,  west  of  the  thirteen  States,"  my  father  answered. 
"  We  can't  picture  a  city  here  now,  but  it  will  be  built  in 
your  day  if  not  in  mine." 

And  then  we  walked  on  until  before  us  stood  that  grace- 
ful little  locust  tree,  the  landmark  of  the  prairie.  Its 
leaves  were  falling  in  golden  showers  now,  save  as  here 
and  there  a  more  protected  branch  still  held  its  summer 
green  foliage. 

"What  a  beautiful,  sturdy  little  pioneer!"  my  father 
exclaimed.  "  It  has  earned  a  first  settler's  right  to  the 
soil.  I  hope  it  will  be  given  the  chance  to  live,  the  chance 
most  of  the  settlers  have  had  to  fight  for,  as  it  has  had 
to  stand  up  against  the  winds  and  hold  its  own  against 
the  drouth.  Any  enterprising  city  official  who  would 
some  day  cut  it  down  should  be  dealt  with  by  the  State." 

We  sat  down  by  the  tree  and  talked  of  many  things,  but 
my  father  carefully  avoided  the  mention  of  Marjie's  name. 
When  he  gave  the  little  girl  the  letter  that  had  fallen  from 
her  cloak  pocket  he  read  her  story  in  her  face,  but  he 
had  no  right  or  inclination  to  read  it  aloud  to  me.  I  tried 
by  all  adroit  means  to  lead  him  to  tell  me  of  the  Whatelys. 
It  was  all  to  no  purpose.  On  any  other  topic  I  would 
have  quitted  the  game,  but  —  oh,  well,  I  was  just  the 
same  foolish-hearted  boy  that  put  the  pink  blossoms  on 
a  little  girl's  brown  curls  and  kissed  her  out  in  the  purple 
shadows  of  the  West  Draw  one  April  evening  long  ago. 
And  now  I  was  about  to  begin  a  dangerous  campaign 
where  the  hazard  of  war  meant  a  nameless  grave  for  a 
hundred,  where  it  brought  after  years  of  peace  and  honor 
to  one.  I  must  hear  something  of  Marjie.  The  love- 
light  in  her  brown  eyes  as  she  gave  me  one  affectionate 
glance  when  I  presented  her  to  Rachel  Melrose  in  my 
father's  office  —  that  pledge  of  her  heart,  I  pictured  over 
and  over  in  my  memory. 

347 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  Father,  Tillhurst  says  he  has  heard  that  Amos  Judson 
and  Marjie  are  engaged.  Are  they?"  I  put  the  ques- 
tion squarely.  My  father  was  stripping  the  gold  leaves 
one  by  one  off  a  locust  spray. 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  it,  too,"  he  replied,  and  to  save  my 
life  I  could  not  have  judged  by  word  or  manner  whether 
he  cared  one  whit  or  not.  He  was  studying  me,  if  toying 
with  a  locust  branch  and  whistling  softly  and  gazing  off 
at  Burnett's  Mound  are  marks  of  study.  He  had  nothing 
of  himself  to  reveal.  "  I  have  heard  it  several  times,"  he 
went  on.  "Judson  has  made  the  announcement  quietly, 
but  generally." 

He  threw  away  the  locust  branch,  shook  down  his  cuff 
and  settled  it  in  his  sleeve,  lifted  his  hat  from  his  fore- 
head and  reset  it  on  his  head,  and  then  added  as  a  final 
conclusion,  "  I  don't  believe  it." 

He  had  always  managed  me  most  skilfully  when  he 
wanted  to  find  out  anything;  and  when  the  time  came 
that  I  began  in  turn  to  manage  him,  being  of  his  own 
blood,  the  game  was  interesting.  But  before  I  knew  it,  we 
had  drifted  far  away  from  the  subject,  and  I  had  no 
opportunity  to  come  back  to  it.  My  father  had  found  out 
all  he  wanted  to  know. 

"  Phil,  I  must  leave  on  the  train  for  Kansas  City  this 
evening,"  he  said  as  we  rose  to  go  back  to  town.  "  I  'm 
to  meet  Morton  there,  and  we  may  go  on  East  together. 
He  will  have  the  best  surgeons  look  after  that  wound  of 
his,  'Governor  Crawford  tells  me." 

Then  laying  his  hand  affectionately  on  my  shoulder  he 
said,  "  I  congratulate  you  on  the  result  of  your  first  cam- 
paign. I  had  hoped  it  would  be  your  last;  but  you  are 
a  man,  and  must  choose  for  yourself.  Yet,  if  you  mean 
to  give  yourself  to  your  State  now,  if  you  choose  a  man's 

348 


THE     CALL    TO     SERVICE 

work,  do  it  like  a  man,  not  like  a  schoolboy  on  a  picnic 
excursion.  The  history  of  Kansas  is  made  as  much  by 
the  privates  down  in  the  ranks  as  by  the  men  whose 
names  and  faces  adorn  its  record.  You  are  making  that 
record  now.  Make  it  strong  and  clean.  Let  the  glory 
side  go,  only  do  your  part  well.  When  you  have  finished 
this  six  months  and  are  mustered  out,  I  want  you  to 
come  home  at  once.  There  are  some  business  matters 
and  family  matters  demanding  it.  But  I  must  go  to  Kan- 
sas City,  and  from  there  to  New  York  on  important  busi- 
ness. And  since  nobody  has  a  lease  on  life,  I  may  as 
well  say  now  that  if  you  get  back  and  I'm  not  there, 
O'mie  left  his  will  with  me  before  he  went  away." 

"His  will?  Now  what  had  he  to  leave?  And  who  is 
his  beneficiary?  " 

"  That 's  all  in  the  will,"  my  father  said,  smiling,  "  but 
it  is  a  matter  that  must  not  be  overlooked.  In  the  nature 
of  things  the  boy  will  go  before  I  do.  He  's  marked,  I 
take  it ;  never  has  gotten  over  the  hardships  of  his  earliest 
years  and  that  fever  in  '63.  Le  Claire  came  back  to  see 
him  and  me  in  September." 

"He  did?    Where  did  he  come  from?" 

My  father  looked  at  me  quickly.  "  Why  do  you  ask?  " 
he  queried. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  when  we  have  more  time.  Just  now 
I  'm  engaged  to  fight  the  Cheyennes,  the  Arapahoes,  the 
Comanches,  and  the  Kiowas,  in  which  last  tribe  my  friend 
Jean  Pahusca  has  pack  right.  He  was  in  that  gang  of 
devils  that  fought  us  out  on  the  Arickaree." 

For  once  I  thought  I  knew  more  than  my  father,  but 
he  replied  quietly,  "  Yes,  I  knew  he  was  there.  His 
tether  may  be  long,  but  its  limit  will  be  reached  some 
day." 

349 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

"Who  told  you  he  was  there,  father?"  I  asked. 

"  Le  Claire  said  so,"  he  answered. 

"  Where  was  he  at  that  time  ?  "  I  was  getting  excited 
now. 

"  He  spent  the  week  in  the  little  stone  cabin  out  by 
the  big  cottonwood.  Took  cold  and  had  to  go  to  St.  Louis 
to  a  hospital  for  a  week  or  two." 

"  He  was  in  the  haunted  cabin  the  third  week  in  Sep- 
tember," I  repeated  slowly;  "then  I  don't  know  black 
from  white  any  more." 

My  father  smiled  at  me.  "They  call  that  being  'lo- 
coed* out  on  the  Plains,  don't  they?"  he  said  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  You  have  a  delusion  mixed  up  in 
your  gray  matter  somewhere.  One  thing  more,"  he  added 
as  an  unimportant  afterthought,  "  I  see  Miss  Melrose  is 
still  in  Topeka." 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"And  Tillhurst,  too,"  he  went  on.  "Well,  there  has 
been  quite  a  little  story  going  around  Conlow's  shop  and 
the  post-office  and  Fingal's  Creek  and  other  social  centres 
about  you  two ;  and  now  when  Tillhurst  gets  back  (he  '11 
never  make  the  cavalry),  he's  square,  but  a  little  vain 
and  thin-skinned,  and  he  may  add  something  of  color  and 
interest  to  the  story.  Let  it  go.  Just  now  it  may  be 
better  so." 

I  thought  his  words  were  indefinite,  for  one  whose  pur- 
poses were  always  definite,  and  in  the  wisdom  of  my 
youth  I  wondered  whether  he  really  wanted  me  to  follow 
Rachel's  leading,  or  whether  he  was,  after  all,  inclined  to 
believe  Judson's  assertion  about  his  engagement,  and 
family  pride  had  a  little  part  to  play  with  him.  It  was 
unlike  John  Baronet  to  stoop  to  a  thing  like  that. 

"  Father,"  I  said,  "  I  'm  going  away,  too.  I  may  never 

350 


THE    CALL    TO     SERVICE 

come  back,  and  for  my  own  sake  I  want  to  assure  you  of 
one  thing:  no  matter  what  Tillhurst  may  say,  if  Rachel 
Melrose  were  ten  times  more  handsome,  if  she  had  in  her 
own  name  a  fortune  such  as  I  can  never  hope  to  acquire 
myself,  she  would  mean  nothing  to  me.  I  care  nothing 
for  the  stories  now  " —  a  hopelessness  would  come  into 
my  voice  — "  but  I  do  not  care  for  her  either.  I  never 
did,  and  I  never  could." 

My  eyes  were  away  on  Burnett's  Mound,  and  the  sweet 
remembrance  of  Marjie's  last  affectionate  look  made  a 
blur  before  them.  We  stood  in  silence  for  some  time. 

"  Phil,"  said  John  Baronet  in  a  deep,  fervent  tone,  "  I 
have  a  matter  I  meant  to  take  up  later,  but  this  is  a 
good  time.  Let  the  young  folks  go  now.  This  is  a  family 
matter.  Years  ago  a  friend  of  the  older  Baronets  died 
in  the  East  leaving  some  property  that  should  sooner  or 
later  come  to  me  to  keep  in  trust  for  you.  This  time  was 
to  be  at  the  death  of  the  man  and  his  wife  who  had  the 
property  for  their  lifetime.  Philip,  you  have  been  ac- 
cused by  the  Conlow-Judson  crowd  of  wanting  a  rich 
wife.  I  also  am  called  grasping  by  Tell  Mapleson's  class. 
And,"  he  smiled  a  little,  "  indeed,  lago's  advice  to  Rod- 
erigo,  *  Put  money  in  thy  purse/  was  sound  philosophy 
if  the  putting  be  honestly  done.  But  this  little  property 
in  the  East  that  should  come  to  you  is  in  the  hands  of 
a  man  who  is  now  ill,  probably  in  his  last  sickness.  He 
has  one  child  that  will  have  nothing  else  left  to  her. 
Shall  we  take  this  money  at  her  father's  death?" 

"  Why,  father,  no.  I  don't  want  it.  Do  you  want 
it?" 

I  knew  him  too  well  to  ask  the  question.  Had  I  not 
seen  the  unselfish,  kindly,  generous  spirit  that  had  marked 
all  his  business  career?  Springvale  never  called  him 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

grasping,  save  as  his  prosperity  grated  on  men  of  Maple- 
son's  type. 

"  Will  you  sign  a  relinquishment  to  your  claim,  and 
trust  to  me  that  it  is  the  best  for  us  to  do?  "  he  asked. 

"Just  as  soon  as  we  get  to  an  inkstand,"  I  answered. 
Nor  did  I  ever  hold  that  such  a  relinquishment  is  any- 
thing but  Christian  opportunity. 

That  evening  I  said  good-bye  to  my  father,  and  when 
I  saw  him  again  it  was  after  I  had  gone  through  the 
greatest  crisis  of  these  sixty  years.  On  the  same  train 
that  bore  my  father  to  the  East  were  his  friend  Morton 
and  his  political  and  professional  antagonist,  Tell  Maple- 
son.  The  next  day  I  enlisted  in  Troop  A  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Kansas  Cavalry,  and  was  quartered  temporarily  in 
the  State  House,  north  of  Fifth  Street,  on  Kansas  Avenue. 
Tillhurst  was  not  admitted  to  the  regiment,  as  my  father 
had  predicted.  Neither  was  Jim  Conlow,  who  had  come 
up  to  Topeka  for  that  purpose.  Good-natured,  shallow- 
pated  "  Possum,"  no  matter  where  he  found  work  to  do, 
he  sooner  or  later  drifted  back  to  Springvale  to  his  father's 
forge.  He  did  not  realize  that  no  Conlow  of  the  Missouri 
breed  ought  ever  to  try  anything  above  a  horse's  hoofs, 
in  cavalry  matters.  The  Lord  made  some  men  to  shoe 
horses,  and  some  to  ride  them.  The  Conlows  were  n't 
riders,  and  Jim's  line  was  turned  again  to  his  father's 
smithy. 

Tillhurst  took  his  failure  the  more  grievously  that  Ra- 
chel, who  had  been  most  gracious  to  him  at  first,  trans- 
ferred her  attentions  to  me.  And  I,  being  only  a  man  and 
built  of  common  clay,  with  my  lifetime  hope  destroyed, 
gave  him  good  reason  to  believe  in  my  superior  influence 
with  the  beautiful  Massachusetts  girl.  I  had  a  game  to 
play  with  Rachel,  for  Topeka  was  full  of  pretty  girls,  and 
I  made  the  most  of  my  time.  I  knew  somewhat  of  the 

352 


THE    CALL    TO     SERVICE 

gayety  the  Winter  on  the  Plains  was  about  to  offer.  As 
long  as  I  could  I  held  to  the  pleasures  of  the  civilized 
homes  and  sheltered  lives.  And  with  all  and  all,  one 
sweet  girl-face,  enshrined  in  my  heart's  holy  of  holies, 
held  me  back  from  idle  deception  and  turned  me  from 
temptation. 


23  353 


CHAPTER    XXII 

THE    NINETEENTH    KANSAS 
CAVALRY 

"The  regiments  of  Kansas  have  glorified  our  State  on  a  hun- 
dred battle  fields,  but  none  served  her  more  faithfully,  or  endured 
more  in  her  cause  than  the  Nineteenth  Kansas  Cavalry." 

—  HORACE  L.  MOORE. 

WHEN  Camp  Crawford  was  opened,  northeast  of 
town,  between  the  Kaw  River  and  the  Shunga- 
nunga  Creek,  I  went  into  training  for  regular  cavalry  serv- 
ice, thinking  less  of  pretty  girls  and  more  of  good  horses 
with  the  passing  days.  I  had  plenty  of  material  for  both 
themes.  Not  only  were  there  handsome  young  ladies  in 
the  capital  city,  but  this  call  for  military  supplies  had 
brought  in  superb  cavalry  mounts.  Every  day  the  camp 
increased  its  borders.  The  first  to  find  places  were  the 
men  of  the  Eighteenth  Kansas  Regiment,  veterans  of  the 
exalted  order  of  the  wardens  of  civilization.  Endurance 
was  their  mark  of  distinction,  and  Loyalty  their  watch- 
word. It  was  the  grief  of  this  regiment,  and  especially  of 
the  men  directly  under  his  leadership,  that  Captain  Henry 
Lindsey  should  not  be  made  a  Major  for  the  Nineteenth. 
No  more  capable  or  more  popular  officer  than  Lindsey  ever 
followed  an  Indian  trail  across  the  Plains. 

It  was  from  the  veterans  of  this  Eighteenth  Cavalry, 
men  whom  Lindsey  had  led,  that  we  younger  soldiers 
learned  our  best  lessons  in  the  months  that  followed. 
Those  were  my  years  of  hero-worship.  I  had  gone  into 

354 


NINETEENTH     CAVALRY 

this  service  with  an  ideal,  and  the  influence  of  such  men  as 
Morton  and  Forsyth,  the  skill  of  Grover,  and  the  daring 
of  Donovan  and  Stillwell  were  an  inspiration  to  me. 
And  now  my  captain  was  the  same  Pliley,  who  with  Don- 
ovan had  made  that  hundred-mile  dash  to  Fort  Wallace 
to  start  a  force  to  the  rescue  of  our  beleaguered  few  in 
that  island  citadel  of  sand. 

The  men  who  made  up  Pliley's  troop  were,  for  the  most 
part,  older  than  myself,  and  they  are  coming  now  to  the 
venerable  years;  but  deep  in  the  heart  of  each  surviving 
soldier  of  that  company  is  admiration  and  affection  for 
the  fearless,  adroit,  resourceful  Captain,  the  modest, 
generous-hearted  soldier. 

On  the  last  evening  of  our  stay  in  Topeka  there  was  a 
gay  gathering  of  young  people,  where,  as  usual,  the  sol- 
dier boys  were  the  lions.  Brass  buttons  bearing  the 
American  Eagle  and  the  magic  inscription  "  U.  S."  have 
ever  their  social  sway. 

Rachel  had  been  assigned  to  my  care  by  the  powers 
that  were.  After  Tillhurst's  departure  I  had  found  my 
companions  mainly  elsewhere,  and  I  would  have  chosen 
elsewhere  on  this  night  had  I  done  the  choosing.  On  the 
way  to  her  aunt's  home  Rachel  was  more  charming  than 
I  had  ever  found  her  before.  It  was  still  early,  and  we 
strolled  leisurely  on  our  way  and  talked  of  many  things. 
At  the  gate  she  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"  Philip,  you  leave  to-morrow.  Maybe  I  shall  never  see 
you  again ;  but  I  'm  not  going  to  think  that."  Her  voice 
was  sweet,  and  her  manner  sincere.  "  May  I  ask  you  one 
favor?" 

"  Yes,  a  dozen,"  I  said,  rashly. 

"  Let 's  take  one  more  walk  out  to  our  locust  tree." 

"  Oh,  blame  the  locust  tree !  What  did  it  ever  grow 
for?  "  That  was  my  thought  but  I  assented  with  a  show 

355 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

of  pleasure,  as  conventionality  demands.  It  was  a  balmy 
night  in  early  November,  not  uncommon  in  this  glorious 
climate.  The  moon  was  one  quarter  large,  and  the  dim 
light  was  pleasant.  Many  young  people  were  abroad 
that  evening.  When  we  reached  the  swell  where  the 
tree  threw  its  lacy  shadows  on  its  fallen  yellow  leaves, 
my  companion  grew  silent. 

"Cheer  up,  Rachel,"  I  said.  "We'll  soon  be  gone 
and  you  '11  be  free  from  the  soldier  nuisance.  And  Dick 
Tillhurst  is  sure  to  run  up  here  again  soon.  Besides, 
you  have  all  Massachusetts  waiting  to  be  conquered." 

She  put  her  little  gloved  hand  on  my  arm. 

"  Philip  Baronet,  I  'm  going  to  ask  you  something. 
You  may  hate  me  if  you  want  to." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to,"  I  assured  her. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Tillhurst  to-day.  He  does 
want  to  come  up,"  she  went  on;  "he  says  also  that  the 
girl  you  introduced  to  me  in  your  father's  office,  what's 
her  name?  —  I've  forgotten  it." 

"So  have  I.     Go  on!" 

"  He  says  she  is  to  be  married  at  Christmas  to  some- 
body in  Springvale.  You  used  to  like  her.  Tell  me, 
do  you  care  for  her  still?  You  could  like  somebody 
else  just  as  well,  could  n't  you,  Phil?  " 

I  put  my  hand  gently  over  her  hand  resting  on  my  arm, 
and  said  nothing. 

"Could  you,  Phil?  She  doesn't  want  you  any  more. 
How  long  will  you  care  for  her?  " 

"  Till  death  us  do  part,"  I  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  dropped  my  arm,  and  even  in  the  shadows  I  could 
see  her  eyes  flash. 

"  I  hate  you,"  she  cried,  passionately. 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  I  answered  like  a  cold-blooded 
brute.  "  But,  Rachel,  this  is  the  last  time  we  shall  be 

356 


NINETEENTH     CAVALRY 

together.  Let's  be  frank,  now.  You  don't  care  for  me. 
It  is  for  the  lack  of  one  more  scalp  to  dangle  at  your 
door  that  you  grieve.  You  want  me  to  do  all  the  caring. 
You  could  forget  me  before  we  get  home." 

Then  the  tears  came,  a  woman's  sure  weapon,  and  I 
hated  myself  more  than  she  hated  me. 

"  I  can  only  wound  your  feelings,  I  always  make  you 
wretched.  Now,  Rachel,  let's  say  good-bye  to-night  as 
the  best  of  enemies  and  the  worst  of  friends.  I  have  n't 
made  your  stay  in  Kansas  happy.  You  will  forget  me 
and  remember  only  the  pleasant  people  here." 

When  she  bade  me  good-bye  at  her  aunt's  door,  there 
was  a  harshness  in  her  voice  I  had  not  noted  before. 

"  If  she  really  did  care  for  me  she  would  n't  change  so 
quickly.  By  Heaven,  I  believe  there  is  something  back 
of  all  this  love-making.  Charming  a  dog  as  he  is,  Phil 
Baronet  in  himself  has  n't  that  much  attraction  for  her," 
I  concluded,  and  I  breathed  freer  for  the  thought.  When 
I  came  long  afterwards  to  know  the  truth  about  her,  I 
understood  this  sudden  change,  as  I  understood  the 
charming  pretensions  to  admiration  and  affection  that 
preceded  it. 

The  next  day  our  command  started  on  its  campaign 
against  the  unknown  dangers  and  hardships  and  suffer- 
ing of  the  winter  Plains.  It  was  an  imposing  cavalcade 
that  rode  down  the  broad  avenue  of  the  capital  city  that 
November  day  when  we  began  our  march.  Up  from 
Camp  Crawford  we  passed  in  regular  order,  mounted  on 
our  splendid  horses,  riding  in  platoon  formation.  At 
Fourth  Street  we  swung  south  on  Kansas  Avenue.  At 
the  head  of  the  column  twenty-one  buglers  rode  abreast, 
Bud  Anderson  and  O'mie  among  them.  Our  Lieutenant- 
Colonel,  Horace  L.  Moore,  and  his  staff  followed  in 
order  behind  the  buglers.  Then  came  the  cavalry,  troop 

357 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

after  troop,  a  thousand  strong,  in  dignified  military 
array,  while  from  door  and  window,  side-walk  and  side- 
street,  the  citizens  watched  our  movements  and  cheered 
us  as  we  passed.  Six  months  later  the  remnants  of  that 
well-appointed  regiment  straggled  into  Topeka  like  stray 
dogs,  and  no  demonstration  was  given  over  their  return. 
But  they  had  done  their  work,  and  in  God's  good  time 
will  come  the  day  "  to  glean  up  their  scattered  ashes  into 
History's  golden  urn." 

A  few  miles  out  from  Topeka  we  were  overtaken  by 
Governor  Crawford.  He  had  resigned  the  office  of  Chief 
Executive  of  Kansas  to  take  command  of  our  regiment. 
The  lustre  of  the  military  pageantry  began  to  fade  by 
the  time  we  had  crossed  the  Wakarusa  divide,  and  the 
capital  city,  nestling  in  its  hill-girt  valley  by  the  side 
of  the  Kaw,  was  lost  to  our  view.  Ours  was  to  be  a 
campaign  of  endurance,  of  dogged  patience,  of  slow, 
grinding  inactivity,  the  kind  of  campaign  that  calls  for 
every  resource  of  courage  and  persistence  from  the 
soldier,  giving  him  in  return  little  of  the  inspiration 
that  stimulates  to  conquest  on  battle  fields.  The  years 
have  come  and  gone,  and  what  the  Nineteenth  Kansas 
men  were  called  to  do  and  to  endure  is  only  now  coming 
into  historical  recognition. 

Our  introduction  to  what  should  befall  us  later  came 
in  the  rainy  weather,  bitter  winds,  insufficient  clothing, 
and  limited  rations  of  our  journey  before  we  reached  Fort 
Beecher,  on  the  Arkansas  River.  To-day,  the  beautiful 
city  of  Wichita  marks  the  spot  where  the  miserable  little 
group  of  tents  and  low  huts,  called  Fort  Beecher,  stood 
then.  Fifty  miles  east  of  this  fort  we  had  passed  the  last 
house  we  were  to  see  for  half  a  year. 

The  Arkansas  runs  bottomside  up  across  the  Plains. 
Its  waters  are  mainly  under  its  bed,  and  it  seems  to  wan- 

358 


NINETEENTH     CAVALRY 

der  aimlessly  among  the  flat,  lonely  sand-bars,  trying  help- 
lessly to  get  right  again.  Beyond  this  river  we  looked 
off  into  the  Unknown.  Somewhere  back  of  the  horizon 
in  that  shadowy  illimitable  Southwest  General  Sheridan 
had  established  a  garrison  on  the  Canadian  River,  and 
here  General  Custer  and  his  Seventh  United  States  Cav- 
alry were  waiting  for  us.  They  had  forage  for  our  horses 
and  food  and  clothing  for  ourselves.  We  had  left 
Topeka  with  limited  supplies  expecting  sufficient  re- 
inforcement of  food  and  grain  at  Fort  Beecher  to  carry 
us  safely  forward  until  we  should  reach  Camp  Supply, 
Sheridan's  stopping-place,  wherever  in  the  Southwest 
that  might  be.  Then  the  two  regiments,  Custer's  Sev- 
enth and  the  Kansas  Nineteenth,  were  together  to  fall 
upon  the  lawless  wild  tribes  and  force  them  into  sub- 
mission. 

Such  was  the  prearranged  plan  of  campaign,  but  dis- 
aster lay  between  us  and  this  military  force  on  the 
Canadian  River.  Neither  the  Nineteenth  Cavalry  com- 
manders, the  scouts,  nor  the  soldiers  knew  a  foot  of  that 
pathless  mystery-shrouded,  desolate  land  stretching 
away  to  the  southward  beyond  the  Arkansas  River.  We 
had  only  a  meagre  measure  of  rations,  less  of  grain  in 
proportion,  and  there  was  no  military  depot  to  which 
we  could  resort.  The  maps  were  all  wrong,  and  in  the 
trackless  wastes  and  silent  sand-dunes  of  the  Cimarron 
country  gaunt  Starvation  was  waiting  to  clutch  our  vitals 
with  its  gnarled  claws;  while  with  all  our  nakedness  and 
famine  and  peril,  the  winter  blizzard,  swirling  its  myriad 
whips  of  stinging  cold  came  raging  across  the  land  and 
caught  us  in  its  icy  grip. 

I  had  learned  on  the  Arickaree  how  men  can  face 
danger  and  defy  death;  I  had  only  begun  to  learn  how 
they  can  endure  hardship. 

359 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

It  was  mid-November  when  our  regiment,  led  by 
Colonel  Crawford,  crossed  the  Arkansas  River  and  struck 
out  resolutely  toward  the  southwest.  Our  orders  were 
to  join  Custer's  command  at  Sheridan's  camp  in  the 
Indian  Territory,  possibly  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
away.  We  must  obey  orders.  It  is  the  military  man's 
creed.  That  we  lacked  rations,  forage,  clothing,  and 
camp  equipment  must  not  deter  us,  albeit  we  had  not 
guides,  correct  maps,  or  any  knowledge  of  the  land  we 
were  invading. 

My  first  lesson  in  this  campaign  was  the  lesson  of 
comradeship.  My  father  had  put  me  on  a  horse  and  I 
had  felt  at  home  when  I  was  so  short  and  fat  my  legs 
spread  out  on  its  back  as  if  I  were  sitting  on  a  floor.  I 
was  accounted  a  fair  rider  in  Springvale.  I  had  loved  at 
first  sight  that  beautiful  sorrel  creature  whose  bones 
were  bleaching  on  the  little  island  in  Colorado,  whose 
flesh  a  gnawing  hunger  had  forced  me  to  eat.  But  my 
real  lessons  in  horsemanship  began  in  Camp  Crawford, 
with  four  jolly  fellows  whom  I  came  to  know  and  love 
in  a  way  I  shall  never  know  or  love  other  men  —  my 
comrades.  Somebody  struck  home  to  the  soldier  heart 
ever  more  when  he  wrote: 

There 's  many  a  bond  in  this  world  of  ours, 
Ties  of  friendship,  and  wreaths  of  flowers, 

And  true-lover's  knots,  I  ween; 
The  boy  and  girl  are  sealed  with  a  kiss; 
But  there  's  never  a  bond,  old  friend,  like  this, — 

We  have  drunk  from  the  same  canteen. 

Such  a  bond  is  mine  for  these  four  comrades.  Reed  and 
Pete,  Hadley  and  John  Mac  were  their  camp  names,  and 
I  always  think  of  them  together.  These  four  made  a  real 
cavalry  man  of  me.  It  may  be  the  mark  of  old  age  upon 

360 


NINETEENTH     CAVALRY 

me  now,  for  even  to-day  the  handsome  automobile  and 
the  great  railway  engine  can  command  my  admiration 
and  awe;  but  the  splendid  thoroughbred,  intelligent,  and 
quivering  with  power,  I  can  command  and  love. 

The  bond  between  the  cavalry  man  and  his  mount  is  a 
strong  one,  and  the  spirit  of  the  war-horse  is  as  varied  and 
sensitive  as  that  of  his  rider.  When  our  regiment  had 
crossed  the  Arkansas  River  and  was  pushing  its  way 
grimly  into  the  heart  of  the  silent  stretches  of  desolation, 
our  horses  grew  nervous,  and  a  restless  homesickness  pos- 
sessed them.  Troop  A  were  great  riders,  and  we  were 
quick  to  note  this  uneasiness. 

"What's  the  matter  with  these  critters,  Phil?"  Reed, 
who  rode  next  to  me,  asked  as  we  settled  into  line  one 
November  morning. 

"  I  don't  know,  Reed,"  I  replied.  "  This  one  is  a  dead 
match  for  the  horse  I  rode  with  Forsyth.  The  man  that 
killed  him  laughed  and  said,  '  There  goes  the  last  damned 
horse,  anyhow.' " 

"  Just  so  it  ain't  the  first 's  all  I  'm  caring  for.  You  '11 
be  in  luck  if  you  have  the  last,"  the  rider  next  to  Reed 
declared. 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  John?"  I  inquired. 

"  Oh,  that 's  John  Mac  for  you,"  Reed  said  laughing. 
"He's  homesick." 

"  No,  it 's  the  horses  that 's  homesick,"  John  Mac  an- 
swered. "  They  've  got  horse  sense  and  that 's  what 
some  of  us  ain't  got.  They  know  they  '11  never  get  across 
the  Arkansas  River  again." 

"Cheerful  prospect,"  I  declared.  "That  means  we'll 
never  get  across  either,  does  n't  it?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  John  answered  grimly,  "  we  '11  get  back 
all  right.  Don't  know  as  this  lot  'd  be  any  special  orna- 
ment to  kingdom  come,  anyhow ;  but  we  '11  go  through 

361 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

hell  on  the  way  comin'  or  goin';  now,  mark  me,  Reed, 
and  stop  your  idiotic  grinning." 

Whatever  may  have  given  this  nervousness  to  the 
horses,  so  like  a  presentiment  of  coming  ill,  they  were 
all  possessed  with  the  same  spirit,  and  we  remembered 
it  afterwards  when  their  bones  were  bleaching  on  the 
high  flat  lands  long  leagues  beyond  the  limits  of  civili- 
zation. 

The  Plains  had  no  welcoming  smile  for  us.  The  No- 
vember skies  were  clouded  over,  and  a  steady  rain  soaked 
the  land  with  all  its  appurtenances,  including  a  strag- 
gling command  of  a  thousand  men  floundering  along  day 
after  day  among  the  crooked  canyons  and  gloomy  sand- 
hills of  the  Cimarron  country.  In  vain  we  tried  to  find 
a  trail  that  should  lead  us  to  Sheridan's  headquarters 
at  Camp  Supply,  on  the  Canadian  River.  Then  the  bliz- 
zard had  its  turn  with  us.  Suddenly,  as  is  the  blizzard's 
habit,  it  came  upon  us,  sheathing  our  rain-sodden  clothing 
in  ice.  Like  a  cloudburst  of  summer  was  this  winter 
cloudburst  of  snow,  burying  every  trail  and  covering 
every  landmark  with  a  mocking  smoothness.  Then  the 
mercury  fell,  and  a  bitter  wind  swept  the  open  Plains. 

We  had  left  Fort  Beecher  with  five  days'  rations  and 
three  days'  forage.  Seven  days  later  we  went  into  biv- 
ouac on  a  crooked  little  stream,  that  empties  its  salty 
waters  into  the  Cimarron.  It  was  a  moonless  freezing 
night.  Fires  were  impossible,  for  there  was  no  wood,  and 
the  buffalo  chips  soaked  with  rain  were  frozen  now  and 
buried  under  the  snow.  A  furious  wind  threshed  the 
earth;  the  mercury  hovered  about  the  zero  mark.  Alkali 
and  salt  waters  fill  the  streams  of  that  land,  and  our  food 
supply  was  a  memory  two  days  old. 

How  precious  a  horse  can  become,  the  Plains  have 
taught  us.  The  man  on  foot  out  there  is  doomed.  All 

362 


NINETEENTH     CAVALRY 

through  this  black  night  of  perishing  cold  we  clung  to 
our  frightened,  freezing,  starving  horses.  We  had  put 
our  own  blankets  about  them,  and  all  night  long  we 
led  them  up  and  down.  The  roar  of  the  storm,  the  con- 
fusion from  the  darkness,  the  frenzy  from  hunger  drove 
them  frantic.  A  stampede  among  them  there  would  have 
meant  instant  death  to  many  of  us,  and  untold  suffering 
to  the  dismounted  remainder.  How  slowly  the  cold, 
bitter  hours  went  by!  I  had  thought  the  burning  heat 
of  the  Colorado  September  unendurable.  I  wondered  in 
that  time  of  freezing  torment  if  I  should  ever  again  call 
the  heat  a  burden. 

There  were  five  of  us  tramping  together  in  one  little 
circle  that  night  —  Reed  and  John  Mac,  and  Pete  and 
Hadley,  with  myself.  In  all  the  garrison  I  came  to  know 
these  four  men  best.  They  were  near  my  own  age;  their 
happy-go-lucky  spirit  and  their  cheery  laughter  were  food 
and  drink.  They  proved  to  me  over  and  over  how  kind- 
hearted  a  soldier  can  be,  and  how  hard  it  is  to  conquer 
a  man  who  wills  himself  unconquerable.  Without  these 
four  I  think  I  should  never  have  gotten  through  that 
night. 

Morning  broke  on  our  wretched  camp  at  last,  and  we 
took  up  the  day's  march,  battling  with  cold  and  hunger 
over  every  foot  of  ground.  On  the  tenth  day  after  we 
crossed  the  Arkansas  River  the  crisis  came.  Our  army 
clothes  were  waiting  for  us  at  Camp  Supply.  Rain  and 
ice  and  the  rough  usage  of  camp  life  had  made  us  ragged 
already,  and  our  shoes  were  worn  out.  And  still  the  cold 
and  storm  stayed  with  us.  We  wrapped  pieces  of  buffalo 
hide  about  our  bare  feet  and  bound  the  horses'  nose-bags 
on  them  in  lieu  of  cavalry  boots.  Our  blankets  we  had 
donated  to  our  mounts,  and  we  had  only  dog  tents,  well 
adapted  to  ventilation,  but  a  very  mockery  at  sheltering. 

363 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Our  provisions  were  sometimes  reduced  to  a  few  little 
cubes  of  sugar  doled  out  to  each  from  the  officers'  stores. 
The  buffalo,  by  which  we  had  augmented  our  food  supply, 
were  gone  now  to  any  shelter  whither  instinct  led  them. 
It  was  rare  that  even  a  lone  forsaken  old  bull  of  the  herd 
could  be  found  in  some  more  sheltered  spot. 

At  last  with  hungry  men  and  frenzied  horses,  with  all 
sense  of  direction  lost,  with  a  deep  covering  of  snow  en- 
shrouding the  earth,  and  a  merciless  cold  cutting  straight 
to  the  life  centres,  we  went  into  camp  on  the  tenth  night 
in  a  little  ravine  running  into  Sand  Creek,  another  Cimar- 
ron  tributary,  in  the  Indian  Territory.  We  were  unable 
to  move  any  farther.  For  ten  days  we  had  been  on  the 
firing  line,  with  hunger  and  cold  for  our  unconquerable 
foes.  We  could  have  fought  Indians  even  to  the  death. 
But  the  demand  on  us  was  for  endurance.  It  is  a 
woman's  province  to  suffer  and  wait  and  bear.  We  were 
men,  fighting  men,  but  ours  was  the  struggle  of  resisting, 
not  attacking,  and  the  tenth  night  found  us  vanquished. 
Somebody  must  come  to  our  rescue  now.  We  could  not 
save  ourselves.  In  the  dangerous  dark  and  cold,  to  an  un- 
known place,  over  an  unknown  way,  somebody  must  go 
for  us,  somebody  must  be  the  sacrifice,  or  we  must  all 
perish.  The  man  who  went  out  from  the  camp  on  Sand 
Creek  that  night  was  one  of  the  two  men  I  had  seen  rise 
up  from  the  sand-pits  of  the  Arickaree  Island  and  start 
out  in  the  blackness  and  the  peril  to  carry  our  cry  to  Fort 
Wallace  —  Pliley,  whose  name  our  State  must  sometime 
set  large  in  her  well-founded,  well-written  story. 

With  fifty  picked  men  and  horses  he  went  for  our  sakes, 
and  more,  aye,  more  than  he  ever  would  claim  for  him- 
self. He  was  carrying  rescue  to  homes  yet  to  be,  he  was 
winning  the  frontier  from  peril,  he  was  paying  the  price 

364 


NINETEENTH     CAVALRY 

for  the  prairie  kingdom  whose  throne  and  altar  are  the 
hearthstone. 

"  Camp  Starvation,"  we  christened  our  miserable, 
snow-besieged  stopping-place.  We  had  fire  but  we  were 
starving  for  food.  Our  horses  were  like  wild  beasts  in 
their  ravenous  hunger,  tearing  the  clothing  from  the  men 
who  came  too  carelessly  near  to  their  rope  tethers. 

That  splendid  group  of  mounts  that  had  pranced 
proudly  down  Kansas  Avenue  less  than  a  month  before, 
moving  on  now  nearly  seven  days  without  food,  dying  of 
cruel  starvation,  made  a  feature  of  this  tragical  winter 
campaign  that  still  puts  an  ache  into  my  soul.  Long  ago 
I  lost  most  of  the  sentiment  out  of  my  life,  but  I  have 
never  seen  a  hungry  horse  since  that  Winter  of  '68  that  I 
let  go  unfed  if  it  lay  within  my  power  to  bring  it  food. 

The  camp  was  well  named.  It  was  Hadley  and  Reed 
and  Pete  and  John  Mac,  that  good-natured  quartet,  who 
stood  sponsors  for  that  title.  We  were  a  pitiful  lot  of 
fellows  in  this  garrison.  We  mixed  the  handful  of  flour 
given  to  us  with  snow  water,  and,  wrapping  the  unsalted 
dough  around  a  sagebrush  spike,  we  cooked  it  in  the 
flames,  and  ate  it  from  the  stick,  as  a  dog  would  gnaw  a 
bone.  The  officers  put  a  guard  around  the  few  little 
hackberry  trees  to  keep  the  men  from  eating  the  berries 
and  the  bark.  Not  a  scrap  of  the  few  buffalo  we  found 
was  wasted.  Even  the  entrails  cleansed  in  the  snow  and 
eaten  raw  gives  hint  of  how  hungry  we  were. 

At  last  in  our  dire  extremity  it  was  decided  to  choose 
five  hundred  of  the  strongest  men  and  horses  to  start 
under  the  command  of  Lieutenant-Colonel  Horace  L. 
Moore,  without  food  or  tents,  through  the  snow  toward 
the  Beulah  Land  of  Camp  Supply.  Pliley  had  been  gone 
for  three  days.  We  had  no  means  of  knowing  whether 

365 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

his  little  company  had  found  Sheridan's  Camp  or  were 
lost  in  the  pathless  snows  of  a  featureless  land,  and  we 
could  not  hold  out  much  longer. 

I  was  among  the  company  of  the  fittest  chosen  to  make 
this  journey.  I  was  not  yet  twenty- two,  built  broad  and 
firm,  and  with  all  the  heritage  of  the  strength  and  en- 
durance of  the  Baronet  blood,  I  had  a  power  of  resistance 
and  recoil  from  conditions  that  was  marvellous  to  the 
veterans  in  our  regiment. 

It  was  mid-forenoon  of  the  fifth  of  November  when  the 
Nineteenth  Kansas  moved  out  of  Camp  Crawford  by  the 
Shunganunga  and  marched  proudly  down  the  main  thor- 
oughfare of  Topeka  at  the  auspicious  beginning  of  its 
campaign.  Twenty  days  later,  Lieutenant-Colonel  Moore 
again  headed  a  marching  column,  this  time,  moving  out 
of  Camp  Starvation  on  Sand  Creek  —  five  hundred  ragged, 
hungry  men  with  famishing  horses,  bearing  no  supplies, 
going,  they  could  only  guess  whither,  and  unable  even  to 
surmise  how  many  days  and  nights  the  going  would  con- 
sume. It  was  well  for  me  that  I  had  an  ideal.  I  should 
have  gone  mad  otherwise,  for  I  was  never  meant  for  the 
roving  chance  life  of  a  Plains  scout. 

When  our  division  made  its  tentless  bivouac  with  the 
sky  for  a  covering  on  the  first  night  out  beyond  the  Cim- 
arron  River  from  Camp  Starvation,  the  mercury  was 
twenty  degrees  below  zero.  Even  a  heart  that  could 
pump  blood  like  mine  could  hardly  keep  the  fires  of  the 
body  from  going  out.  There  was  a  full  moon  somewhere 
up  in  the  cold,  desolate  heavens  lighting  up  a  frozen  des- 
olate land.  I  shiver  even  now  at  the  picture  my  memory 
calls  up.  In  the  midst  of  that  night's  bitter  chill  came  a 
dream  of  home,  of  the  warm  waters  of  the  Neosho  on 
August  afternoons,  of  the  sunny  draw,  and  —  Marjie.  Her 
arms  were  about  my  neck,  her  curly  head  was  nestling 

366 


NINETEENTH     CAVALRY 

against  my  shoulder,  the  little  ringlets  about  her  temples 
touched  my  cheek.  I  lifted  her  face  to  kiss  her,  but  a 
soft  shadowy  darkness  crept  between  us,  and  I  seemed 
to  be  sinking  into  it  deeper  and  deeper.  It  grew  so  black 
I  longed  to  give  up  and  let  it  engulf  me.  It  was  so  easy 
a  thing  to  do. 

Then  in  a  blind  stupidity  I  began  to  hear  a  voice  in 
my  ears,  and  to  find  myself  lunging  back  and  forth  and 
stumbling  lamely  on  my  left  foot.  The  right  foot  had 
no  feeling,  no  power  of  motion,  and  I  forgot  that  I  had  it. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Pete?"  I  asked,  when  I  recog- 
nized who  it  was  that  was  holding  me. 

Pete  was  like  an  elder  brother,  always  doing  me  a  kind 
service. 

"  Trying  to  keep  you  from  freezing  to  death,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"  Oh,  let  me  go.  It 's  so  easy,"  I  answered  back 
drowsily. 

"  By  golly,  I  've  a  notion  to  do  it."  Pete's  laugh  was 
a  tonic  in  itself.  "  Here  you  and  your  horse  are  both 
down,  and  you  can't  stand  on  one  of  your  feet.  I  '11  bet 
it 's  froze,  and  you  about  to  go  over  the  River ;  and  when 
a  fellow  tries  to  pull  you  back  you  say,  *  Oh,  let  me 
go ! '  You  darned  renegade !  you  ought  to  go." 

He  was  doing  his  best  for  me  all  the  time,  and  he  had 
begun  none  too  soon,  for  Death  had  swooped  down  near 
me,  and  I  was  ready  to  give  up  the  struggle.  The  warmth 
of  the  horse's  body  had  saved  one  foot,  but  as  to  the 
other  —  the  little  limp  I  shall  always  have  had  its  be- 
ginning in  that  night's  work. 

The  next  day  was  Thanksgiving,  although  we  did  not 
know  it.  There  are  no  holy  days  or  gala  days  to  men 
who  are  famishing.  That  day  the  command  had  no  food 
except  the  few  hackberries  we  found  and  the  bark  of  the 

367 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

trees  we  gnawed  upon.  It  was  the  hardest  day  of  all 
the  march. 

Pete,  who  had  pulled  me  back  from  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  the  night  before,  in  his  search  for  food  that  day, 
found  a  luckless  little  wild-cat.  And  that  cat  without 
sauce  or  dressing  became  his  Thanksgiving  turkey. 

The  second  night  was  bitterly  cold,  and  then  came  a 
third  day  of  struggling  through  deep  snows  on  hilly 
prairies,  and  across  canyon-guarded  bridgeless  streams. 
The  milestones  of  our  way  were  the  poor  bodies  of  our 
troop  horses  that  had  given  up  the  struggle,  while  their 
riders  pushed  resolutely  forward. 

On  the  fourth  day  out  from  Camp  Starvation  we  came 
at  sundown  to  the  edge  of  a  low  bluff,  beyond  which  lay 
a  fertile  valley.  If  Paradise  at  life's  eventide  shall  look 
as  good  to  me,  it  will  be  worth  all  the  cares  of  the  journey 
to  make  an  abundant  entrance  therein. 

Out  of  the  bitter  cold  and  dreary  snow  fields,  trackless 
and  treeless,  whereon  we  had  wandered  starving  and  un- 
certain, we  looked  down  on  a  broad  wooded  valley  shel- 
tering everything  within  it.  Two  converging  streams 
glistening  in  the  evening  light  lay  like  great  bands  of 
silver  down  this  valley's  length.  Below  us  gleamed  the 
white  tents  of  Sheridan's  garrison,  while  high  above  them 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  in  silent  dignity  floated  lightly  in 
the  gentle  breeze  of  sunset. 

That  night  I  slept  under  a  snug  tent  on  a  soft  bed  of 
hay.  And  again  I  dreamed  as  I  had  dreamed  long  ago  of 
the  two  strange  women  whom  I  was  struggling  to  free 
from  a  great  peril. 

General  Sheridan  had  expected  the  Kansas  regiment 
to  make  the  journey  from  Fort  Beecher  on  the  Arkansas 
to  his  station  on  the  Canadian  River  in  four  or  five  days. 
Our  detachment  of  five  hundred  men  had  covered  it  in 

368 


NINETEENTH     CAVALRY 

fourteen  days,  but  we  had  done  it  on  five  days'  rations, 
and  three  days'  forage.  Small  wonder  that  our  fine 
horses  had  fallen  by  the  way.  It  is  only  the  human  or- 
ganism backed  by  a  soul,  that  can  suffer  and  endure. 

Pliley  and  his  fifty  men  who  had  left  us  the  night  we 
went  into  camp  on  Sand  Creek  had  reached  Sheridan 
three  days  in  advance  of  us,  and  already  relief  was  on 
its  way  to  those  whom  we  had  left  beyond  the  snow- 
beleaguered  canyons  of  the  Cimarron.  The  whole  of 
our  regiment  was  soon  brought  in  and  this  part  of  the 
journey  and  its  hardships  became  but  a  memory.  Official 
war  reports  account  only  for  things  done.  No  record  is 
kept  of  the  cost  of  effort.  The  glory  is  all  for  the  battle 
lists  of  the  killed  or  wounded,  and  yet  I  account  it  the 
one  heroic  thing  of  my  life  that  I  was  a  Nineteenth 
Kansas  Cavalry  man  through  that  November  of  1868 
on  the  Plains. 


24  369 


CHAPTER    XXIII 
IN    JEAN'S    LAND 

All  these  regiments  made  history  and  left  records  of  unfading 
glory. 

WHILE  the  Kansas  volunteers  had  been  floundering 
in  the  snow-heaped  sand-dunes  of  the  Cimarron 
country,  General  Sheridan's  anxiety  for  our  safety  grew 
to  gravest  fears.  General  Ouster's  feeling  was  that  of 
impatience  mingled  with  anxiety.  He  knew  the  tribes 
were  getting  farther  away  with  every  twenty-four  hours' 
delay,  and  he  shaped  his  forces  for  a  speedy  movement 
southward.  The  young  general's  military  genius  was  as 
strong  in  minute  detail  as  in  general  scope.  His  com- 
mand was  well  directed.  Enlisted  under  him  were  a 
daring  company  of  Osage  scouts,  led  by  Hard  Rope  and 
Little  Beaver,  two  of  the  best  of  this  ever  loyal  tribe. 
Forty  sharpshooters  under  Colonel  Cook,  and  a  company 
of  citizen  scouts  recruited  by  their  commanding  officer, 
Pepoon,  were  added  to  the  regular  soldiery  of  the  Sev- 
enth Cavalry. 

These  citizen  scouts  had  been  gathered  from  the  Kan- 
sas river  valleys.  They  knew  why  they  had  come  hither. 
Each  man  had  his  own  tragic  picture  of  the  Plains. 
They  were  a  silent  determined  force  which  any  enemy 
might  dread,  for  they  had  a  purpose  to  accomplish  —  even 
the  redemption  of  the  prairie  from  its  awful  peril. 

The  November  days  had  slipped  by  without  our  regi- 

370 


IN    JEAN'S     LAND 

merit's  appearance.  The  finding  of  an  Indian  trail  toward 
the  southwest  caused  Sheridan  to  loose  Custer  from  fur- 
ther delay.  Eagerly  then  he  led  forth  his  willing  com- 
mand out  of  Camp  Supply  and  down  the  trail  toward 
the  Washita  Valley,  determined  to  begin  at  once  on  the 
winter's  work. 

The  blizzard  that  had  swept  across  the  land  had  caught 
the  Indian  tribes  on  their  way  to  the  coverts  of  the 
Wichita  Mountains,  and  forced  them  into  winter  quar- 
ters. The  villages  of  the  Cheyenne,  the  Kiowa,  and  the 
Arapahoe  extended  up  and  down  the  sheltering  valley 
of  the  Washita  for  many  miles.  Here  were  Black  Kettle 
and  his  band  of  Cheyenne  braves  —  they  of  the  loving 
heart  at  Fort  Hays,  they  who  had  filled  all  the  fair 
northern  prairie  lands  with  terror,  whose  hands  reeked 
with  the  hot  blood  of  the  white  brothers  they  professed  to 
love.  In  their  snug  tepees  were  their  squaws,  fat  and 
warm,  well  clothed  and  well  fed.  Dangling  from  the 
lodge  poles  were  scalps  with  the  soft  golden  curls  of 
babyhood.  No  comfort  of  savage  life  was  lacking  to  the 
papooses  here.  And  yet,  in  the  same  blizzards  wherein 
we  had  struggled  and  starved,  half  a  score  of  little  white 
children  torn  from  their  mothers'  clinging  arms,  these  In- 
dians had  allowed  to  freeze  to  death  out  on  the  Plains, 
while  the  tribes  were  hurrying  through  the  storm  to  the 
valley.  The  fathers  of  some  of  these  lost  children  were 
in  that  silent  company  under  Pepoon,  marching  now  with 
the  Seventh  Cavalry  down  upon  the  snow-draped  tepees 
of  Black  Kettle  and  his  tribe. 

Oh,  the  cost  of  it  all!  The  price  paid  out  for  a  beau- 
tiful land  and  sheltered  homes,  and  school  privileges  and 
Sabbath  blessings!  It  was  for  these  that  men  fought 
and  starved  and  dared,  and  at  last  died,  leaving  only  a 
long-faded  ripple  in  the  prairie  sod  where  an  unmarked 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

grave  holds  human   dust  returned  to  the   dust   of  the 
earth. 

In  the  shelter  of  the  Washita  Valley  on  that  twenty- 
seventh  day  of  November,  God's  vengeance  came  to  these 
Indians  at  the  hands  of  General  Custer.  He  had  ap- 
proached their  village  undiscovered.  As  the  Indians  had 
swooped  down  on  Forsyth's  sleeping  force;  as  the  yells 
of  Black  Kettle's  braves  had  startled  the  sleeping  settlers 
at  dawn  on  Spillman  Creek,  the  daybreak  now  marked 
the  beginning  of  retribution.  While  the  Seventh  Cavalry 
band  played  "  Garry  Owen "  as  a  signal  for  closing  in, 
Custer's  soldiery,  having  surrounded  the  village,  fell  upon 
it  and  utterly  destroyed  it.  Black  Kettle  and  many  of 
his  braves  were  slain,  the  tepees  were  burned,  the  In- 
dians' ponies  were  slaughtered,  and  the  squaws  and  chil- 
dren made  captives. 

News  of  this  engagement  reached  Sheridan's  garrison, 
on  the  day  after  our  arrival,  with  the  word  also  that 
Custer,  unable  to  cope  with  the  tribes  swarming  down 
the  Washita  River,  was  returning  to  Camp  Supply  with, 
his  spoils  of  battle. 

"Did  you  know,  Phil,"  Bud  Anderson  said,  "that 
Cuthter'th  to  have  a  grand  review  before  the  General 
and  hith  thtaff  when  he  geth  here  to-morrow,  and  that  'th. 
all  we  '11  thee  of  the  thircuth.  My !  but  I  wish  we  could 
have  been  in  that  fight;  don't  you?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Bud,  I  'd  hate  to  come  down  here  for 
nothing,  after  all  we  've  gone  through ;  but  don't  you 
worry  about  that;  there'll  be  plenty  to  be  done  before 
the  whole  Cheyenne  gang  is  finished." 

"  It  '11  be  a  sight  worth  seein*  anyhow,  this  parade," 
O'mie  declared.  "  Do  you  remember  the  day  Judge  Bar- 
onet took  his  squad  out  av  Springvale,  Phil?  What  a 
careless  set  av  young  idiots  we  were  then?  " 

372 


IN    JEAN'S     LAND 

Did  I  remember?  Could  I  be  the  same  boy  that 
watched  that  line  of  blue-coats  file  out  of  Springvale  and 
across  the  rocky  ford  of  the  Neosho  that  summer  day? 
It  seemed  so  long  ago;  and  this  snow-clad  valley  seemed 
the  earth's  end  from  that  warm  sunny  village.  But  Cus- 
ter's  review  was  to  come,  and  I  should  see  it. 

It  was  years  ago  that  this  review  was  made,  and  I  who 
write  of  it  have  had  many  things  crowded  into  the  mem- 
ory of  each  year.  And  yet,  I  recall  as  if  it  were  but 
yesterday  that  parade  of  a  Plains  military  review.  It 
was  a  magnificent  sunlit  day.  The  Canadian  Valley, 
smooth  and  white  with  snow,  rose  gently  toward  the  hills 
of  the  southwest.  Across  this  slope  of  gleaming  white- 
ness came  Custer's  command,  and  we  who  watched  it 
saw  one  of  those  bits  of  dramatic  display  rare  even  among 
the  stirring  incidents  of  war. 

Down  across  the  swell,  led  by  Hard  Rope  and  Little 
Beaver,  came  the  Osage  scouts  tricked  out  in  all  the  fan- 
tastic gear  of  Indian  war  coloring,  riding  hard,  as  Indians 
ride,  cutting  circles  in  the  snow,  firing  shots  into  the  air, 
and  chanting  their  battle  songs  of  victory.  Behind  them 
came  Pepoon's  citizen  scouts.  Men  with  whom  I  had 
marched  and  fought  on  the  Arickaree  were  in  that  stern, 
silent  company,  and  my  heart  thumped  hard  as  I  watched 
them  swinging  down  the  line. 

And  then  that  splendid  cavalry  band  swept  down  the 
slope  riding  abreast,  their  instruments  glistening  in  the 
sunlight,  and  their  horses  stepping  proudly  to  the  music 
as  the  strains  of  "  Garry  Owen  to  Glory  "  filled  the  valley. 

Behind  the  band  were  the  prisoners  of  war,  the  Chey- 
enne widows  and  orphans  of  Black  Kettle's  village  riding 
on  their  own  ponies  in  an  irregular  huddle,  their  bright 
blankets  and  Indian  trinkets  of  dress  making  a  division 
in  that  parade,  the  mark  of  the  untrained  and  uncivilized. 

373 


THE    PRICE    OE    THE    PRAIRIE 

After  these  were  the  sharpshooters  led  by  their  com- 
mander, Cook,  and  then  —  we  had  been  holding  our  breath 
for  this  —  then  rode  by  column  after  column  in  perfect 
order,  dressed  to  the  last  point  of  military  discipline,  that 
magnificent  Seventh  Cavalry,  the  flower  of  the  nation's 
soldiery,  sent  out  to  subdue  the  Plains.  At  their  head 
was  their  commander,  a  slender  young  man  of  twenty- 
nine  summers,  lacking  much  the  fine  physique  one  pic- 
tures in  a  leader  of  soldiers.  But  his  face,  from  which 
a  tangle  of  long  yellow  curls  fell  back,  had  in  it  the  mark 
of  a  master. 

This  parade  was  not  without  its  effect  on  us,  to  whom 
the  ways  of  war  were  new.  Well  has  George  Eliot  de- 
clared "  there  have  been  no  great  nations  without  pro- 
cessions." The  unwritten  influence  of  that  thrilling  act 
of  dramatic  display  somehow  put  a  stir  in  the  blood  and 
loyalty  and  patriotism  took  stronger  hold  on  us. 

We  had  come  out  to  break  the  red  man's  power  by  a 
winter  invasion.  Camp  Supply  was  abandoned,  and  the 
whole  body  made  its  way  southward  to  Fort  Cobb.  To 
me  ours  seemed  a  tremendous  force.  We  were  two 
thousand  soldiers,  with  commanders,  camp  officials,  and 
servants.  Our  wagon  train  had  four  hundred  big  Gov- 
ernment wagons,  each  drawn  by  six  mules.  We  trailed 
across  the  Plains  leaving  a  wide  and  well  marked  path 
where  twenty-five  hundred  cavalry  horses,  with  as  many 
mules,  tramped  the  snow. 

The  December  of  the  year  1868  was  a  terror  on  the 
Plains.  No  fiercer  blizzard  ever  blew  out  of  the  home 
of  blizzards  than  the  storms  that  fell  upon  us  on  the  south- 
ward march. 

Down  in  the  Washita  Valley  we  came  to  the  scene  of 
Custer's  late  encounter.  Beyond  it  was  a  string  of  re- 
cently abandoned  villages  clustering  down  the  river  in 

374 


IN    JEAN'S    LAND 

the  sheltering  groves  where  had  dwelt  Kiowa,  Arapahoe, 
and  Comanche,  from  whose  return  fire  Custer  saved  him- 
self by  his  speedy  retreat  northward  after  his  battle  with 
Black  Kettle's  band. 

A  little  company  of  us  were  detailed  to  investigate 
these  deserted  quarters.  The  battle  field'  had  a  few  frozen 
bodies  of  Indians  who  had  been  left  by  the  tribe  in  their 
flight  before  the  attack  of  the  Seventh  Cavalry.  There 
were  also  naked  forms  of  white  soldiers  who  had  met 
death  'here.  In  the  villages  farther  on  were  heaps  of  be- 
longings of  every  description,  showing  how  hasty  the 
exodus  had  been.  In  one  of  these  villages  I  dragged  the 
covering  from  a  fallen  snow-covered  tepee.  Crouched 
down  in  its  lowest  place  was  the  body  of  a  man,  dead, 
with  a  knife  wound  in  the  back. 

"  Poor  coward !  he  tried  hard  to  get  away,"  Bud  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Some  bigger  coward  tried  to  make  a  shield  out  of 
him,  I  '11  guess,"  I  replied,  lifting  the  stiff  form  with 
more  carefulness  than  sentiment.  As  I  turned  the  body 
about,  I  caught  sight  of  the  face,  which  even  in  death  was 
marked  with  craven  terror.  It  was  the  face  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Dodd,  pastor  of  the  Springvale  Methodist  Church 
South.  In  his  clenched  dead  hands  he  still  held  a  torn 
and  twisted  blanket.  It  was  red,  with  a  circle  of  white 
in  the  centre. 

On  the  desolate  wind-swept  edge  of  a  Kiowa  village 
Bud  and  I  came  upon  the  frozen  body  of  a  young  white 
woman.  Near  her  lay  her  two-year-old  baby  boy.  With 
her  little  one,  she  had  been  murdered  to  prevent  her 
rescue,  on  the  morning  of  Custer's  attack  on  the  Chey- 
ennes,  murdered  with  the  music  of  the  cavalry  band 
sounding  down  the  valley,  and  with  the  shouts  and  shots  of 
her  own  people,  ringing  a  promise  of  life  and  hope  to  her. 

375 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Bud  had  n't  been  with  Forsyth,  and  he  was  not  quite 
ready  for  this.  He  stooped  and  stroked  the  woman's 
hair  tenderly  and  then  lifted  a  white  face  up  toward  me. 
"  It  would  have  happened  to  Marjie,  Phil,  long  ago,  but 
for  O'mie.  They  were  Kiowath,  too,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

After  that  moment  there  was  no  more  doubt  for  me. 
I  knew  why  I  had  been  spared  in  Colorado,  and  I  conse- 
crated myself  to  the  fighting  duty  of  an  American  citizen, 
"  Through  famine  and  fire  and  frost,"  I  vowed  to  myself, 
"  I  give  my  strength  to  this  work,  even  unto  death  if 
God  wills  it." 

Tenderly,  for  soldiers  can  be  tender,  the  body  of  the 
mother  and  her  baby  were  wrapped  in  a  blanket  and  placed 
in  one  of  the  wagons,  to  be  carried  many  miles  and  to 
wait  many  days  before  they  were  laid  to  rest  at  last  in 
the  shadow  of  Fort  Arbuckle. 

I  saw  much  of  O'mie.  In  the  army  as  in  Springvale, 
he  was  everybody's  friend.  But  the  bitter  winter  did  not 
alleviate  that  little  hacking  cough  of  his.  Instead  of  the 
mild  vigor  of  the  sunny  Plains,  that  we  had  looked  for 
was  the  icy  blast  with  its  penetrating  cold,  as  sudden  in 
its  approach  as  it  was  terrible  in  its  violence.  Sometimes 
even  now  on  winter  nights  when  the  storms  sweep  across 
the  west  prairie  and  I  hear  them  hurl  their  wrathful 
strength  against  this  stanch  stone  house  with  its  rounded 
turret-like  corners,  I  remember  how  the  wind  blew  over 
our  bivouacs,  and  how  we  burrowed  like  prairie  dogs  in 
the  river  bank,  where  the  battle  with  the  storm  had  only 
one  parallel  in  all  this  campaign.  That  other  battle 
comes  later. 

But  with  all  and  all  we  could  live  and  laugh,  and  I  still 
bless  the  men,  Reed  and  Hadley  and  John  Mac  and 
Pete,  whose  storm  cave  was  near  mine.  Without  the 

376 


IN    JEAN'S    LAND 

loud,  cheery  laugh  from  their  nest  I  should  have  died. 
But  nobody  said  "die."  Troop  A  had  the  courage  of 
its  convictions  and  a  breezy  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  I 
think  I  could  turn  back  at  Heaven's  gate  to  wait  for  the 
men  who  went  across  the  Plains  together  in  that  year 
of  Indian  warfare. 

This  is  only  one  man's  story.  It  is  not  an  official  report. 
The  books  of  history  tell  minutely  how  the  scattered  tribes 
submitted.  Overwhelmed  by  the  capture  of  their  chief 
men,  on  our  march  to  Fort  Cobb,  induced  partly  by  threat- 
ened danger  to  these  captive  chiefs,  but  mostly  by  bewil- 
derment at  the  presence  of  such  a  large  force  in  their 
country  in  midwinter,  after  much  stratagem  and  time- 
gaining  delays  they  came  at  last  to  the  white  commander's 
terms,  and  pitched  their  tepees  just  beyond  our  camp. 
Only  one  tribe  remained  unsubdued:  the  Cheyennes,  who 
with  trick  and  lie,  had  managed  to  elude  all  the  forces  and 
escape  to  the  southwest. 

We  did  not  stay  long  at  Fort  Cobb'.  The  first  week  of 
the  new  year  found  us  in  a  pleasanter  place,  on  the  pres- 
ent site  of  Fort  Sill.  It  was  not  until  after  the  garrison 
was  settled  here  that  I  saw  much  of  these  Indian  tribes, 
whom  Ouster's  victory  on  the  Washita,  and  diplomatic 
handling  of  affairs  afterwards,  had  brought  into  villages 
under  the  guns  of  our  cantonment. 

I  knew  that  Satanta  and  Lone  Wolf,  chief  men  of  the 
Kiowas,  were  held  as  hostages,  but  I  had  not  been  near 
them.  Satanta  was  the  brute  for  whom  the  dead  woman 
with  her  little  one  had  been  captured.  Her  form  was 
mouldering  back  to  earth  in  her  grave  at  Fort  Arbuckle, 
while  he,  well  clothed  and  well  fed,  was  a  gentleman 
prisoner  of  war  in  a  comfortable  lodge  in  our  midst. 

The  East  knew  little  of  the  Plains  before  the  railroads 
crossed  them.  Eastern  religious  papers  and  church  mis- 

377 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

sion  secretaries  lauded  Satanta  as  a  hero,  and  Black 
Kettle,  whom  Custer  had  slain,  as  a  martyr;  while  they 
urged  that  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  civil  law  be  meted 
out  to  Custer  and  Sheridan  in  particular,  and  to  the  rest 
of  us  at  wholesale. 

One  evening  I  was  sent  by  an  officer  on  some  small 
errand  to  Satanta's  tent.  The  chief  had  just  risen  from  his 
skin  couch,  and  a  long  band  of  black  fur  lay  across  his 
head.  In  the  dim  light  it  gave  his  receding  forehead  a 
sort  of  square-cut  effect.  He  threw  it  off  as  I  entered, 
but  the  impression  it  made  I  could  not  at  once  throw 
off.  The  face  of  the  chief  was  for  the  moment  as  sug- 
gestive of  Jean  Pahusca's  face  as  ever  Father  Le  Claire's 
had  been. 

"If  Jean  is  a  Kiowa,"  I  said  to  myself,  "then  this 
scoundrel  here  must  be  his  mother's  brother."  I  had 
only  a  few  words  with  the  man,  but  a  certain  play  of  light 
on  his  cunning  countenance  kept  Jean  in  my  mind  con- 
tinually. 

When  I  turned  to  go,  the  tent  flap  was  pulled  back  for 
me  from  the  outside  and  I  stepped  forth  and  stood  face 
to  face  with  Jean  Pahusca  himself,  standing  stolidly  be- 
fore me  wrapped  in  a  bright  new  red  blanket.  We  looked 
at  each  other  steadily. 

"  You  are  in  my  land  now.  This  is  n't  Springvale." 
There  was  still  that  French  softness  in  his  voice  that 
made  it  musical,  but  the  face  was  cruel  with  a  still  re- 
lentless, deadly  cruelty  that  I  had  never  seen  before  even 
in  his  worst  moods. 

The  Baronets  are  not  cowardly  by  nature,  but  some- 
thing in  Jean  always  made  me  even  more  fearless.  To 
his  taunting  words,  "  This  is  n't  Springvale,"  I  replied 
evenly,  "  No,  but  this  is  Phil  Baronet  still." 

378 


IN    JEAN'S     LAND 

He  gave  me  a  swift  searching  look,  and  turning,  dis- 
appeared in  the  shadows  beyond  the  tents. 

"  I  owe  him  a  score  for  his  Arickaree  plans,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "and  his  scalp  ought  to  come  off  to  O'mie  for 
his  attempt  to  murder  the  boy  in  the  Hermit's  Cave.  Oh, 
it 's  a  grim  game  this.  I  hope  it  will  end  here  soon." 

As  I  turned  away  I  fell  against  Hard  Rope,  chief  of 
the  Osage  scouts.  I  had  seen  little  of  him  before,  but 
from  this  time  on  he  shadowed  my  pathway  with  a  per- 
sistence I  had  occasion  to  remember  when  the  soldier 
life  was  forgotten. 

The  beginning  of  the  end  was  nearer  than  I  had  wished 
for.  All  about  Fort  Sill  the  bluffy  heights  looked  down 
on  pleasant  little  valleys.  White  oak  timber  and  green 
grass  made  these  little  parks  a  delight  to  the  eye.  The 
soldiers  penetrated  all  the  shelving  cliffs  about  them  in 
search  of  game  and  time-killing  leisure. 

The  great  lack  of  the  soldier's  day  is  seclusion.  The 
mess  life  and  tent  life  and  field  life  may  develop  com- 
radeship, but  it  cannot  develop  individuality.  The  lone- 
liness of  the  soldier  is  in  the  barracks,  not  in  the  brief 
time  he  may  be  by  himself. 

Beyond  a  little  brook  Bud  and  I  had  by  merest  chance 
found  a  small  cove  in  the  low  cliff  looking  out  on  one  of 
these  valleys,  a  secluded  nook  entered  by  a  steep,  short 
climb.  We  kept  the  place  a  secret  and  called  it  our 
sanctuary.  Here  on  the  winter  afternoons  we  sat  in  the 
warm  sunshine  sheltered  from  the  winds  by  the  rocky 
shelf,  and  talked  of  home  and  the  past;  and  sometimes, 
but  not  often,  of  the  future.  On  the  day  after  I  saw  Jean 
at  the  door  of  Satanta's  tent,  Bud  stole  my  cap  and 
made  off  to  our  sanctuary.  I  had  adorned  it  with  turkey 
quills,  and  made  a  fantastic  head-gear  out  of  it.  Sol- 

379 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

diers  do  anything  to  kill  time;  and  jokes  and  pranks  and 
child's  play,  stale  and  silly  enough  in  civil  life,  pass  for 
fun  in  lieu  of  better  things  in  camp. 

It  was  a  warm  afternoon  in  February,  and  the  soldiers 
were  scattered  about  the  valley  hunting,  killing  rattle- 
snakes that  the  sunshine  had  tempted  out  on  the  rocks 
before  their  cave  hiding-places,  or  tramping  up  and  down 
about  the  river  banks.  Hearing  my  name  called,  I  looked 
out,  only  to  see  Bud  disappearing  and  John  Mac,  who  had 
mistaken  him  for  me,  calling  after  him.  John  Mac,  lead- 
ing the  other  three,  Hadley  and  Reed  and  Pete,  each  with 
his  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the  one  before  him,  were 
marching  in  locked  step  across  the  open  space. 

"  The  rascal 's  heading  for  the  sanctuary,"  I  said  to 
myself.  "I'll  follow  and  surprise  him." 

I  had  nearly  reached  the  foot  of  the  low  bluff  when  a 
pistol  shot,  clear  and  sharp,  sounded  out;  and  I  thought 
I  heard  a  smothered  cry  in  the  direction  Bud  had  taken. 
"  Somebody  hunting  turkey  or  killing  snakes,"  was  my 
mental  comment.  Rifles  and  revolvers  were  popping 
here  and  there,  telling  that  the  boys  were  out  on  a  hunting 
bout  or  at  target  practice.  As  I  rounded  a  huge  bowlder, 
beyond  which  the  little  climb  to  our  cove  began,  I  saw 
Bud  staggering  toward  me.  At  the  same  time  half  a 
dozen  of  the  boys,  Pete  and  Reed  and  John  Mac  among 
them,  came  hurrying  around  the  angle  of  another  pro- 
jecting rock  shelf. 

Bud's  face  was  pallid,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  full  of 
pathos.  I  leaped  toward  him,  and  he  fell  into  my  arms. 
A  hole  in  his  coat  above  his  heart  told  the  story, —  a  bul- 
let and  internal  bleeding.  I  stretched  him  out  on  the 
grassy  bank  and  the  soldiers  gathered  around  him. 

"  Somebody 's  made  an  awful  mistake,"  John  Mac  said 
bitterly.  "  The  boys  are  hunting  over  on  the  other  side 

380 


IN    JEAN'S     LAND 

of  the  bluff.  We  heard  them  shooting  turkey,  and  then 
we  heard  one  shot  and  a  scream.  The  boys  don't  know 
what  they've  done." 

"  I  'm  glad  they  don't,"  I  murmured. 

"We  were  back  there;  you  can't  get  down  in  front," 
Reed  said.  They  did  not  know  of  our  little  nest  on  the 
front  side  of  the  bluff. 

"I'm  all  right,  Phil,"  Bud  said,  and  smiled  up  at  me 
and  reached  for  my  hand.  "  I  'm  glad  you  did  n't  come. 
I  told  O'mie  latht  night  where  to  find  it."  And  then  his 
mind  wandered,  and  he  began  to  talk  of  home. 

"  Run  for  the  surgeon,  somebody,"  one  of  the  boys 
urged ;  and  John  Mac  was  off  at  the  word. 

"  It  ain't  no  use,"  Pete  declared,  kneeling  beside  the 
wounded  boy.  "  He  's  got  no  need  for  a  surgeon." 

And  I  knew  he  was  right.  I  had  seen  the  same  thing 
before  on  reeking  sands  under  a  blazing  September  sky. 

I  took  the  boy's  head  in  my  lap  and  held  his  hand  and 
stroked  that  shock  of  yellow  hair.  He  thought  he  was  at 
Springvale  and  we  were  in  the  Deep  Hole  below  the  Her- 
mit's Cave.  He  gripped  my  hand  tightly  and  begged 
me  not  to  let  him  go  down.  It  did  not  last  long.  He 
soon  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  I  'm  thafe,"  he  lisped.     "  Your  turn,  now,  Phil." 

The  soldiers  had  fallen  back  and  left  us  two  together. 
John  Mac  and  Reed  had  hastened  to  the  cantonment  for 
help,  but  Pete  knew  best.  It  was  useless.  Even  now, 
after  the  lapse  of  nearly  forty  years,  the  sorrow  of  that 
day  lies  heavy  on  me.  "  Accidental  death  "  the  official 
record  was  made,  and  there  was  no  need  to  change  it,  when 
we  knew  better. 

That  evening  O'mie  and  I  sat  together  in  the  shadowy 
twilight.  There  was  just  a  hint  of  spring  in  the  balmy 
air,  and  we  breathed  deeply,  realizing,  as  never  before, 

38i 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

how  easy  a  thing  it  is  to  cut  off  the  breath  of  life.  We 
talked  of  Bud  in  gentle  tones,  and  then  O'mie  said: 
"  Lem  me  tell  you  something  Phil.  I  was  over  among 
the  Arapahoes  this  afternoon,  an'  I  saw  a  man,  just  a 
glimpse  was  all;  but  you  never  see  a  face  so  like  Father 
Le  Claire's  in  your  life.  It  could  n't  be  nobody  else  but 
that  praist;  and  yet,  it  couldn't  be  him,  nather." 

"Why,  O'mie?"  I  asked. 

"It  was  an  evil-soaked  face.  And  yet  it  was  fine- 
lookin'.  It  was  just  like  Father  Le  Claire  turned  bad." 

"  Maybe  it  was  Father  Le  Claire  himself  turned  bad,"  I 
said.  "  I  saw  the  same  man  up  on  the  Arickaree,  voice 
and  all.  Men  sometimes  lead  double  lives.  I  never 
thought  that  of  him.  But  who  is  this  shadow  of  Jean 
Pahusca's  —  a  priest  in  civilization,  a  renegade  on  the 
Plains?  Not  only  the  face  and  voice  of  the  man  I  saw,  but 
his  gait,  the  set  of  his  shoulders,  all  were  Le  Claire  to  a 
wrinkle." 

"  Phil,  it  could  n't  have  been  him  in  September.  The 
praist  was  at  Springvale  then,  and  he  went  out  on  Dever's 
stage  white  and  sick,  hurrying  to  Kansas  City.  Oh,  be- 
gorra,  there  's  a  few  extry  folks  more  'n  I  can  use  in  this 
world,  annyhow." 

We  sat  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  the  shadow  of  the 
bowlder  concealing  us.  I  was  just  about  to  rise  when 
two  men  came  soft-footed  out  of  the  darkness  from  be- 
yond the  cliff.  Passing  near  us  they  made  their  way 
along  the  little  stream  toward  the  river.  They  were  talk- 
ing in  low  tones  and  we  caught  only  a  sentence  or  two. 

"When  are  you  going  to  leave?"  It  was  Jean  Pa- 
husca's voice. 

"  Not  till  I  get  ready." 

The  tone  had  that  rich  softness  I  heard  so  often 
when  Father  Le  Claire  chatted  with  our  gang  of  boys  in 

382 


IN    JEAN'S     LAND 

Springvale,  but  there  was  an  insolence  in  it  impossible 
to  the  priest.  O'mie  squeezed  my  hand  in  the  dark  and 
rising  quickly  he  followed  them  down  the  stream.  The 
boy  never  did  know  what  fear  meant.  They  were  soon 
lost  in  the  darkness  and  I  waited  for  O'mie's  return.  He 
came  presently,  running  swiftly  and  careless  of  the  noise 
he  made.  Beyond,  I  heard  the  feet  of  a  horse  in  a  gallop, 
a  sound  the  bluff  soon  shut  off. 

"  Come,  Phil,  let  's  get  into  camp  double  quick  for  the 
love  av  all  the  saints." 

Inside  the  cantonment  we  stopped  for  breath,  and  as 
soon  as  we  could  be  alone,  O'mie  explained. 

"  Whoiver  that  man  with  Jean  was,  he  's  a  '  was '  now 
for  good.  Jean  fixed  him." 

"Tell  me,  O'mie,  what's  he  done?"  I  asked  eagerly. 

"  They  seemed  to  be  quarrellin'.  I  heard  Jean  say, 
'  You  can't  get  off  too  quick ;  Satanta  has  got  men  hired 
to  scalp  you ;  now  take  my  word.'  An'  the  Le  Claire  one 
laughed,  oh,  hateful  as  anything  could  be,  and  says,  *  I  'm 
not  afraid  of  Satanta.  He  's  a  prisoner.'  Bedad !  but  his 
voice  is  like  the  praist's.  They  're  too  much  alike  to  be 
two  and  too  different  somehow  to  be  one.  But  Phil, 
d  'ye  know  that  in  the  rumpus  av  Custer's  wid  Black 
Kittle,  Jean  stole  old  Satanta's  youngest  wife  and  made 
off  wid  her,  and  wid  his  customary  cussedness  let  her 
freeze  to  death  in  them  awful  storms.  Now  he  's  layin* 
the  crime  on  this  praist-renegade  and  trying  to  git  the 
Kiowas  to  scalp  the  holy  villain.  That's  the  row  as  I 
made  it  out  between  'em.  They  quarrelled  wid  each  other 
quite  fierce,  and  the  Imitation  says,  *  You  are  Satanta's 
tool  yourself '  ;  and  Jean  said  somethin'  I  could  n't  hear. 
Then  the  Imitation  struck  at  him.  It  was  dark,  but  I 
heard  a  groan  and  something  like  the  big  man  went  plunk 
into  the  river.  Then  Jean  made  a  dash  by  me,  and  he 's 

383 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

on  a  horse  now,  and  a  mile  beyont  the  South  Pole  by 
this  time.  'Tain't  no  pony,  I  bet  you,  but  a  big  cavalry 
horse  he 's  stole.  He  put  a  knife  into  what  went  into 
the  river,  so  it  won't  come  out.  That  Imitation  is  n't 
Le  Claire,  but  nather  is  he  anybody  else  now.  Phil,  d  'ye 
reckon  this  will  iver  be  a  dacent  civilized  country?  D  'ye 
reckon  these  valleys  will  iver  have  orchards  and  cornfields 
and  church  steeples  and  schoolhouses  in  'em,  and  little 
homes,  wid  children  playin'  round  'em  not  afraid  av  their 
lives?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  "  but  orchards  and  corn- 
fields and  church  steeples  and  schoolhouses  and  little 
homes  with  children  unafraid,  have  been  creeping  across 
America  for  a  hundred  years  and  more." 

"  So  they  have ;  but  oh,  the  cost  av  it  all !  The  Gov- 
ernment puts  the  land  at  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  an  acre, 
wid  your  courage  and  fightin'  strength  and  quickest  wits, 
and  by  and  by  your  heart's  blood  and  a  grave  wid  no 
top  cover,  like  a  fruit  tart,  sometimes,  let  alone  a  tomb- 
stone, as  the  total  cost  av  the  prairie  sod.  It's  a  great 
story  now,  aven  if  nobody  should  care  to  read  it  in  a 
gineration  or  so." 

So  O'mie  philosophized  and  I  sat  listening,  whittling 
the  while  a  piece  of  soft  pine,  the  broken  end  of  a  cracker 
box. 

"  Now,  Phil,  where  did  you  get  that  knife?  "  O'mie  asked 
suddenly. 

"That's  the  knife  I  found  in  the  Hermit's  Cave  one 
May  day  nearly  six  years  ago,  when  I  went  down  there 
after  a  lazy  red-headed  Irishman.  I  found  it  to-day  down 
in  my  Saratoga  trunk.  See  the  name? "  I  pointed  to 
the  script  lettering,  spelling  out  slowly  — "  Jean  Le 
Claire." 

give  it  to  me.     I  got  it  away  from  the  '  good 

384 


IN    JEAN'S     LAND 

Injun '  first."  O'mie  deftly  wrenched  it  out  of  my  hand. 
"  Let  me  kape  it,  Phil.  I  Ve  a  sort  of  fore-warnin'  I 
may  nade  it  soon." 

"  Keep  it  if  you  want  to,  you  grasping  son  of  Erin,"  I 
replied  carelessly. 

We  were  talking  idly  now,  to  hide  the  heaviness  of 
our  sorrow  as  we  thought  of  Bud  down  under  the  clods, 
whose  going  had  left  us  two  so  lonely  and  homesick. 

Two  days  later  when  I  found  time  to  slip  away  to  our 
sanctuary  and  be  alone  for  a  little  while,  my  eye  fell  upon 
my  feather-decked  hat,  crushed  and  shapeless  as  if  it  had 
been  trampled  on,  lying  just  at  the  corner  where  I  came 
into  the  nook.  I  turned  it  listlessly  in  my  hands  and 
stood  wrapped  in  sorrowful  thought.  A  low  chuckle 
broke  the  spell,  and  at  the  same  moment  a  lariat  whizzed 
through  the  air  and  encircled  my  body.  A  jerk  and  I 
was  thrown  to  the  ground,  my  arms  held  to  my  sides. 
Almost  before  I  could  begin  to  struggle  the  coils  of  the 
rope  were  deftly  bound  about  me  and  I  was  helpless  as 
a  mummy.  Then  Jean  Pahusca,  deliberate,  cruel,  mock- 
ing, sat  down  beside  me.  The  gray  afternoon  was  grow- 
ing late,  and  the  sun  was  showing  through  the  thin  clouds 
in  the  west.  Down  below  us  was  a  beautiful  little  park 
with  its  grove  of  white-oak  trees,  and  beyond  was  the 
river.  I  could  see  it  all  as  I  lay  on  the  sloping  shelf  of 
stone  —  the  sky,  and  the  grove  and  the  bit  of  river  with 
the  Arapahoe  and  Kiowa  tepees  under  the  shadow  of  the 
fort,  and  the  flag  floating  lazily  above  the  garrison's  tents. 
It  was  a  peaceful  scene,  but  near  me  was  an  enemy  cut- 
ting me  off  from  all  this  serenity  and  safety.  In  his  own 
time  he  spoke  deliberately.  He  had  sat  long  preparing 
his  thought. 

"  Phil  Baronet,  you  may  know  now  you  are  at  the  end 
of  your  game.  I  have  waited  long.  An  Indian  learns  to 
25  385 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

wait.  I  have  waited  ever  since  the  night  you  put  the 
pink  flowers  on  her  head  —  Star-face's.  You  are  strong, 
you  are  not  afraid,  you  are  quick  and  cunning,  you  are 
lucky.  But  you  are  in  my  land  now.  You  have  no  more 
strength,  and  your  cunning  and  courage  and  luck  are 
useless.  They  don't  know  where  you  are.  They  don't 
know  about  this  place."  He  pointed  toward  the  tents 
as  he  spoke.  "When  they  do  find  you,  you  won't  do 
them  any  good."  He  laughed  mockingly  but  not  un- 
musically. "  They  '11  say,  '  accidental  death  by  hunters,' 
as  they  said  of  Bud.  Bah!  I  was  fooled  by  his  hat. 
I  thought  he  was  you.  But  he  deserved  it,  anyhow." 

So  that  was  what  had  cut  him  off.  Innocent  Bud! 
wantonly  slain,  by  one  the  law  might  never  reach.  The 
thought  hurt  worse  than  the  thongs  that  bound  me. 

"  Before  I  finish  with  you  I  '11  let  you  have  more  time 
to  think,  and  here  is  something  to  think  about.  It  was 
given  to  me  by  a  girl  who  loved  you,  or  thought  she  did. 
She  found  it  in  a  hole  in  the  rock  where  Star-face  had 
put  it.  Do  you  know  the  writing?  " 

He  held  a  letter  before  my  eyes.  In  Marjie's  well 
known  hand  I  read  the  inscription,  "  Philip  Baronet, 
Rockport,  Cliff  Street." 

"  It 's  a  letter  Star-face  put  in  the  place  you  two  had 
for  a  long  time.  I  never  could  find  it,  but  Lettie  did. 
She  gave  it  to  me.  There  was  another  letter  deeper  in, 
but  this  was  the  only  one  she  could  get  out.  Her  arm 
was  too  short.  Star-face  and  Amos  Judson  were  mar- 
ried Christmas  Day.  You  didn't  know  that." 

How  cruelly  slow  he  was,  but  it  was  useless  to  say  a 
word.  He  had  no  heart.  No  plea  for  mercy  would  move 
him  to  anything  but  fiendish  joy  that  he  could  call  it 
forth.  At  last  he  opened  the  letter  and  read  aloud.  He 
was  a  good  reader.  All  his  schooling  had  developed  his 

386 


IN    JEAN'S     LAND 

power  over  the  English  language,  but  it  gave  him  nothing 
else. 

Slowly  he  read,  giving  me  time  to  think  between  the 
sentences.  It  was  the  long  loving  letter  Marjie  wrote  to 
me  on  the  afternoon  that  Rachel  and  I  went  to  the  old 
stone  cabin  together.  It  told  me  all  the  stories  she  had 
heard,  and  it  assured  me  that  in  spite  of  them  all  her 
faith  in  me  was  unshaken. 

"  I  know  you,  Phil,"  she  had  written  at  the  end,  "  and 
I  know  that  you  are  all  my  own." 

I  understood  everything  now.  Oh,  if  I  must  die,  it  was 
sweet  to  hear  those  words.  She  had  not  gotten  my 
letter.  She  had  heard  all  the  misrepresentation,  and  she 
knew  alLthe  circumstances  entangling  everything.  What 
had  become  of  my  letter  made  no  difference;  it  was  lost. 
But  she  loved  me  still.  And  I  who  should  have  read  this 
letter  out  on  "  Rockport "  in  the  August  sunset,  I  was 
listening  to  it  now  out  on  this  gray  rock  in  a  lonely  land 
as  I  lay  bound  for  the  death  awaiting  me.  But  the  read- 
ing brought  joy.  Jean  watching  my  face  saw  his  mistake 
and  he  cursed  me  in  his  anger. 

"  You  care  so  much  for  another  man's  wife  ?  So !  I 
can  drive  away  your  happiness  as  easily  as  I  brought  it 
to  you,"  he  argued.  "  I  go  back  to  Springvale.  Nobody 
knows  when  I  go.  Bud  's  out  of  the  way ;  O'mie  won't 
be  there.  Suddenly,  silently,  I  steal  upon  Star-face  when 
she  least  thinks  of  me.  I  would  have  been  good  to  her 
five  years  ago.  I  can  get  her  away  long  and  long  before 
anybody  will  know  it.  Tell  Mapleson  will  help  me  sure. 
Now  I  sell  her,  on  time,  to  one  buck.  When  I  get  ready 
I  redeem  her,  and  sell  her  to  another.  You  know  that 
woman  you  and  Bud  found  in  Satanta's  tepee  on  the 
Washita?  I  killed  her  myself.  The  soldiers  went  by 
five  minutes  afterwards, —  she  was  that  near  getting 

387 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

away.  That 's  what  Star-face  will  come  to  by  and  by. 
Satanta  is  my  mother's  brother.  I  can  surpass  him.  I 
know  your  English  ways  also.  When  you  die  a  little 
later,  remember  what  Star-face  is  coming  to.  When  I 
get  ready  I  will  torture  her  to  death.  You  could  n't  es- 
cape me.  No  more  can  she.  Remember  it !  " 

The  sun  was  low  in  the  west  now,  and  the  pain  of 
my  bonds  was  hard  to  bear,  but  this  slow  torture  of 
mind  made  them  welcome.  They  helped  me  not  to  think. 
After  a  long  silence  Jean  turned  his  face  full  toward  me. 
I  had  not  spoken  a  word  since  his  first  quick  binding  of 
my  limbs. 

"  When  the  last  pink  is  in  the  sky  your  time  will  come," 
he  laughed.  "  And  nobody  will  know.  I  '11  leave  you 
where  the  hunter  accidentally  shot  you.  Watch  that  sun- 
set and  think  of  home." 

He  shoved  me  rudely  about  that  I  might  see  the  western 
sky  and  the  level  rays  of  the  sun,  as  it  sank  lower  and 
lower.  I  had  faced  death  before.  I  must  do  it  sometime, 
once  for  all.  But  life  was  very  dear  to  me.  Home  and 
Marjie's  love.  Oh,  the  burden  of  the  days  had  been  more 
grievous  than  I  had  dreamed,  now  that  I  understood. 
And  all  the  time  the  sun  was  sinking.  Keeping  well  in 
the  shadow  that  no  eye  from  below  might  see  him,  Jean 
walked  toward  the  edge  of  the  shelf. 

"  It  will  be  down  in  a  minute  more ;  look  and  see,"  he 
said,  in  that  soft  tone  that  veiled  a  fiend's  purpose.  Then 
he  turned  away,  and  glancing  out  over  the  valley  he  made 
a  gesture  of  defiance  at  the  cantonment.  His  back  was 
toward  me.  The  red  sun  was  on  the  horizon  bar,  half  out 
of  sight. 

"  Though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  I  will  fear  no  evil."  The  arm  of  the  All  Father 
was  round  about  me  then,  and  I  put  my  trust  in  Him. 

388 


IN    JEAN'S     LAND 

As  Jean  turned  to  face  the  west  the  glow  of  the  sinking 
ball  of  fire  dazzled  his  eyes  a  moment.  But  that  was  long 
enough,  for  in  that  instant  a  step  fell  on  the  rock  beside 
me.  A  leap  of  lightning  swiftness  put  a  form  between 
my  eyes  and  the  dying  day;  the  flash  of  a  knife  —  Jean 
Le  Claire's  short  sharp  knife  —  glittered  here;  my  bonds 
were  cut  in  a  twinkling;  O'mie,  red-headed  Irish  O'mie, 
lifted  me  to  my  feet,  and  I  was  free. 


389 


CHAPTER    XXIV 
THE    CRY     OF    WOMANHOOD 

The  women  have  no  voice  to  speak,  but  none  can  check  your 

pen  — 
Turn  for  a  moment  from  your  strife  and  plead  their  cause,  O 

men!  —KIPLING. 

AFTER  all,  it  was  not  Tillhurst,  but  Jim  Conlow,  who 
had  a  Topeka  story  to  tell  when  he  went  back  to 
Springvale;  and  it  was  Lettie  who  edited  and  published 
her  brother's  story.  Lettie  had  taken  on  a  new  degree  of 
social  importance  with  her  elevation  to  a  clerkship  in 
Judson's  store,  and  she  was  quick  to  take  advantage  of  it. 

Tillhurst,  when  he  found  his  case,  like  my  own,  was 
hopeless  with  Marjie,  preferred  that  Rachel's  name  and 
mine  should  not  be  linked  together.  Also  a  degree  of 
intimacy  had  developed  suddenly  between  Tell  Mapleson 
and  the  young  teacher.  The  latter  had  nothing  to  add 
when  Lettie  enlarged  on  Rachel's  preference  for  me  and 
my  devotion  to  her  while  the  Nineteenth  Kansas  was 
mobilizing  in  Topeka. 

"And  everybody  knows,"  Lettie  would  declare,  "  that 
she's  got  the  money,  and  Phil  will  never  marry  a  poor 
girl.  No,  sir !  No  Baronet 's  going  to  do  that." 

Although  it  was  only  Lettie  who  said  it,  yet  the  im- 
pression went  about  and  fixed  itself  somehow,  that  I  had 
given  myself  over  to  a  life  of  luxury.  I,  who  at  this  very 
time  was  starving  of  hunger  and  almost  perishing  of 

390 


THE     CRY     OF    WOMANHOOD 

cold  in  a  bleak  wind-swept  land.  And  to  me  for  all  this, 
there  was  neither  riches  nor  glory,  nor  love. 

Springvale  was  very  gay  that  winter.  Two  young 
lawyers  from  Michigan,  fresh  from  the  universities,  set 
up  a  new  firm  over  Judson's  store  where  my  father's 
office  had  been  before  "  we  planted  him  in  the  court- 
house, where  he  belongs,"  as  Cam  Gentry  used  to  de- 
clare. A  real-estate  and  money-loaning  firm  brought 
three  more  young  men  to  our  town,  while  half  a  dozen 
families  moved  out  to  Kansas  from  Indiana  and  made 
a  "  Hoosiers'  Nest "  in  our  midst.  And  then  Fingal's 
Creek  and  Red  Range  and  all  the  fertile  Neosho  lands 
were  being  taken  by  settlers.  The  country  population 
augmented  that  of  the  town,  nor  was  the  social  plane  of 
Springvale  lowered  by  these  farmers'  sons  and  daughters, 
who  also  were  of  the  salt  of  the  earth. 

"  For  an  engaged  girl,  Marjory  Whately  's  about  the 
most  popular  I  ever  see,"  Dollie  Gentry  said  to  Cam  one 
evening,  when  the  Cambridge  House  was  all  aglow  with 
light  and  full  of  gay  company. 

Marjie,  in  a  dainty  white  wool  gown  with  a  pink  sash 
about  her  waist,  and  pink  ribbons  in  her  hair,  had  just 
gone  from  the  kitchen  with  three  or  four  admiring  young 
fellows  dancing  attendance  upon  her. 

"  How  can  anybody  help  lovin'  her?  "  Dollie  went  on. 

Cam  sighed,  "  O  Lordy !  A  girl  like  her  to  marry  that 
there  pole  cat!  How  can  the  Good  Bein'  permit  it?" 

"  'T  ain't  between  her  and  her  Maker ;  it 's  all  between 
Mrs.  Whately  and  Amos,"  Dollie  asserted.  "  Now,  Cam, 
has  anybody  ever  heard  her  say  she  was  engaged?  She 
goes  with  one  and  another.  Cris  Mead's  wife  says  she  al- 
ways has  more  company  'n  she  can  make  use  of  any  ways. 
It's  like  too  much  canned  fruit  a'most.  Mis'  Mead  loves 
Marjie,  and  she 's  so  proud  of  her.  Marjie  don't  wear 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

no  ring,  neither,  not  a  one,  sence  she  took  off  Phil  Baro- 
net's." 

Springvale  had  sharp  eyes ;  and  the  best-hearted  among 
us  could  tell  just  how  many  rings  any  girl  did  or  did  n't 
wear. 

"  Well,  by  hen!  "  Cam  declared,  "  I  'm  just  goin'  to  ask 
herself  myself." 

"  No,  you  ain't,  Cam  Gentry,"  Dollie  said  decisively. 

"  Now,  Dollie,  don't  you  dictate  to  your  lord  and  master 
no  more.  I  won't  stand  it."  Cam  squinted  up  at  her 
from  his  chair  in  a  ludicrous  attempt  to  frown.  "  Worst 
hen-pecked  man  in  town,  by  golly." 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  dictate  to  no  fool,  Cam.  If  you  want 
to  be  one,  I  can't  help  it.  I  must  go  and  set  bread  now." 
And  Dollie  pattered  off  singing  "  Come  Thou  Fount,"  in 
a  soft  little  old-fashioned  tune. 

"  Marjie,  girl,  I  knowed  you  when  you  was  in  bib 
aperns,  and  I  knowed  your  father  long  ago.  Best  man 
ever  went  out  to  fight  and  never  got  back.  They 's  as 
good  a  one  comin'  back,  though,  some  day,"  he  added 
softly,  and  smiled  as  the  pink  bloom  on  Marjie's  cheeks 
deepened.  "  Marjie,  don't  git  mad  at  an  old  man  like 
your  Uncle  Cam.  I  mean  no  harm." 

It  was  the  morning  after  the  party.  Marjie,  who  had 
been  helping  Mary  Gentry  "  straighten  up,"  was  resting 
now  by  the  cosy  fireplace,  while  Dollie  and  Mary  pre- 
pared lunch. 

"Go  ahead,  Uncle  Cam,"  the  girl  said,  smiling.  "I 
could  n't  get  mad  at  you,  because  you  never  would  do 
anything  unkind." 

"  Well,  little  sweetheart,  honest  now,  and  I  won't  tell, 
and  it's  none  of  my  doggoned  business  neither;  but  be 
you  goin'  to  marry  Amos  Judson  ?  " 

392 


THE    CRY     OF    WOMANHOOD 

There  was  no  resentment  in  the  girl's  face  when  she 
heard  his  halting  question,  but  the  pink  color  left  it,  and 
her  white  cheeks  and  big  brown  eyes  gave  her  a  stateliness 
Cam  had  never  seen  in  her  before. 

"  No,  Uncle  Cam.  It  makes  no  difference  what  comes 
to  me,  I  could  not  marry  such  a  man.  I  never  will." 

"  Oh,  Lord  bless  you,  Marjie !  "  Cam  closed  his  eyes 
a  moment.  "  They 's  a  long  happy  road  ahead  of  you. 
I  can  see  it  with  my  good  inside  eyes  that  sees  further  'n 
these  things  I  use  to  run  the  Cambridge  House  with. 
'T  ain't  my  business,  I  'm  a  gossipin'  inquisitive  old  poke- 
yer-nose,  but  I  've  always  been  so  proud  of  you,  little 
blossom.  Yes,  we  're  comin',  Dollie,  if  you  've  got  a  thing 
a  dyspeptic  can  eat." 

He  held  the  door  for  Marjie  to  pass  before  him  to  the 
dining-room.  Cam  was  not  one  of  the  too-familiar  men. 
There  was  a  gentleman's  heart  under  the  old  spotted  vel- 
vet "  weskit,"  as  he  called  his  vest,  and  with  all  his  bad 
grammar,  a  quaint  dignity  and  purity  of  manner  and 
speech  to  women. 

But  for  all  this  declaration  of  Marjie's,  Judson  was 
planning  each  day  for  the  great  event  with  an  assurance 
that  was  remarkable. 

"  She  '11  be  so  tangled  up  in  this,  she  '11  have  to  come 
to  terms.  There  ain't  no  way  out,  if  she  wants  to  save 
old  Whately's  name  from  dishonor  and  keep  herself  out 
of  the  hired-girl  class,"  he  said  to  Tell  Mapleson.  "  And 
besides,  there 's  the  durned  Baronet  tribe  that  all  the 
Whatelys  have  been  so  devoted  to.  That 's  it,  just  devoted 
to  'em.  Now  they  '11  come  in  for  a  full  share  of  disgrace, 
too." 

The  little  man  had  made  a  god  of  money  so  long  he 
could  not  understand  how  poverty  and  freedom  may  bring 
infinitely  more  of  blessing  than  wealth  and  bonds.  So 

393 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

many  years,  too,  he  had  won  his  way  by  trickery  and  de- 
ception, he  felt  himself  a  man  of  Destiny  in  all  he  under- 
took. But  one  thing  he  never  could  know  —  I  wonder  if 
men  ever  do  know  —  a  woman's  heart.  He  had  not 
counted  on  having  to  reckon  with  Marjie,  having  made 
sure  of  her  mother.  It  was  not  in  his  character  to  under- 
stand an  abiding  love. 

There  was  another  type  of  woman  whom  he  misjudged 
—  that  of  Lettie  Conlow.  In  his  dictatorial  little  spirit, 
he  did  not  give  a  second  thought  beyond  the  use  he  could 
make  of  her  in  his  greedy  swooping  in  of  money. 

"  O'mie  knows  too  much,"  Judson  informed  his  friend. 
"  He  's  better  out  of  this  town.  And  Lettie,  now,  I  can 
just  do  anything  with  Lettie.  You  know,  Mapleson,  a 
widower  's  really  more  attractive  to  a  girl  than  a  young 
man ;  and  as  for  me,  well,  it 's  just  in  me,  that 's  all.  Lettie 
likes  me." 

Whatever  Tell  thought,  he  counselled  care. 

"  You  can't  be  too  careful,  Judson.  Girls  are  the  un- 
safest  cattle  on  this  green  earth.  My  boy  fancied  Con- 
low's  girl  once.  I  sent  him  away.  He  's  married  now, 
and  doing  well.  Runs  on  a  steamboat  from  St.  Louis 
to  New  Orleans.  I  'd  go  a  little  slow  about  gettin*  a  girl 
like  Lettie  in  here." 

"  Oh,  I  can  manage  any  girl  on  earth.  Old  maids  and 
young  things  '11  come  flockin'  round  a  man  with  money. 
Beats  all." 

This  much  O'mie  had  overheard  as  the  two  talked  to- 
gether in  tones  none  too  low,  in  Judson's  little  cage  of  an 
office,  forgetting  the  clerk  arranging  the  goods  for  the 
night. 

When  Judson  had  found  out  how  Mrs.  Whately  had 
tried  to  help  his  cause  by  appealing  to  my  father,  his  anger 
was  a  fury.  Poor  Mrs.  Whately,  who  had  meant  only  for 

394 


They  came  slowly  toward  us,  the  two  captive  women 
for  whom  we  waited 


THE     CRY     OF    WOMANHOOD 

the  best,  beset  with  the  terror  of  disgrace  to  Marjie 
through  the  dishonorable  acts  of  her  father,  tried  help- 
lessly to  pacify  him.  Between  her  daughter  and  herself 
a  great  gulf  opened  whenever  Judson's  name  was  men- 
tioned ;  but  in  everything  else  the  bond  between  them  was 
stronger  than  ever. 

"  She  is  such  a  loving,  kind  daughter,  Amos,"  Mrs. 
Whately  said  to  the  anxious  suitor.  "  She  fills  the  house 
with  sunshine,  and  she  is  so  strong  and  self-reliant. 
When  I  spoke  to  her  about  our  coming  poverty,  she  only 
laughed  and  held  up  her  little  hands,  and  said,  '  They  're 
equal  to  it.'  The  very  day  I  spoke  to  her  she  began 
to  do  something.  She  found  three  music  pupils  right 
away.  She 's  been  giving  lessons  all  this  Fall,  and  has 
all  she  can  give  the  time  to.  And  when  I  hinted  about 
her  father's  name  being  disgraced,  she  kissed  his  picture 
and  put  it  on  the  Bible  and  said,  '  He  was  true  as  truth. 
I  won't  disgrace  myself  by  ever  thinking  anything  else.' 
And  last  of  all,  because  she  did  so  love  Phil  once  "  (poor 
Mrs.  Whately  was  the  worst  of  strategists  here),  "when 
I  tried  to  put  his  case  she  said  indifferently,  '  If  he  did 
wrong,  let  him  right  it.  But  he  did  n't.'  Now,  Amos, 
you  must  talk  to  her  yourself.  I  don't  know  what  John 
Baronet  advised  her  to  do." 

Talking  to  Marjie  was  the  thing  Amos  could  not  do, 
and  the  mention  of  John  Baronet  was  worse  than  the 
recollection  of  that  callow  stripling,  Phil.  The  widower 
stormed  and  scolded  and  threatened,  until  Mrs.  Whately 
turned  to  him  at  last  and  said  quietly: 

"  Amos,  I  think  we  will  drop  the  matter  now.  Go 
home  and  think  it  over." 

He  knew  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  angry  as  he  was, 
he  had  the  prudence  to  hold  his  tongue.  But  his  pur- 
pose was  undaunted.  His  temper  was  not  settled,  how- 

395 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

ever,  when  Mapleson  called  on  him  later  in  the  day. 
Lettie  was  busy  marking  down  prices  on  a  counter  full 
of  small  articles  and  the  two  men  did  not  know  how  easily 
they  could  be  overheard.  Judson  had  no  reason  to  con- 
trol himself  with  Tell,  and  his  wrath  exploded  then  and 
there.  Neither  did  Mapleson  have  need  for  temperance, 
and  their  angry  tones  rose  to  a  pitch  they  did  not  note 
at  the  time. 

"  I  tell  you,  Amos,"  Lettie  heard  Tell  saying,  "  you  've 
got  to  get  rid  of  this  Conlow  girl,  or  you  're  done  for. 
Phil's  lost  that  Melrose  case  entirely;  and  he's  out 
where  a  certain  Kiowa  brave  we  know  is  creepin'  on  his 
trail  night  and  day.  He  '11  never  come  back.  If  his  dis- 
appearance is  ever  checked  up  to  Jean,  I  '11  clear  the  Injun. 
You  can't  do  a  thing  to  the  Baronets.  If  this  thing  gets 
up  to  Judge  John,  you  're  done  for.  I  '11  never  stand  by 
it  a  minute.  You  can't  depend  on  me.  Now,  let  her 
go." 

"  I  tell  you  I  'm  going  to  marry  Marjie,  Lettie  or  no 
Lettie.  Good  Lord,  man !  I  've  got  to,  or  be  ruined.  It 's 
too  late  now.  I  can  get  rid  of  this  girl  when  I  want  to, 
but  I  '11  keep  her  a  while." 

Lettie  dropped  her  pencil  and  crept  nearer  to  tKe  glass 
partition  over  the  top  of  which  the  angry  words  were 
coming  to  her  ears.  Her  black  eyes  dilated  and  her 
heart  beat  fast,  as  she  listened  to  the  two  men  in  angry 
wrangle. 

"  He 's  going  to  marry  Marjie.  He  '11  be  ruined  if  he 
does  n't.  And  he  says  that  after  all  he  has  promised  me 
all  this  Fall  and  Winter!  Oh!"  She  wrung  her  hands 
in  bitterness  of  soul.  Judson  had  not  counted  on  having 
to  reckon  with  Lettie,  any  more  than  with  Marjie. 

That  night  at  prayer  meeting,  a  few  more  prominent 
people  were  quietly  let  into  the  secret  of  the  coming 

396 


THE     CRY     OF    WOMANHOOD 

event,  and  the  assurance  with  which  the  matter  was  put 
left  little  room  for  doubt. 

John  Baronet  sat  in  his  office  looking  out  on  the  leafless 
trees  of  the  courthouse  yard  and  down  the  street  to  where 
the  Neosho  was  glittering  coldly.  It  was  a  gray  day, 
and  the  sharp  chill  in  the  air  gave  hint  of  coming  rough 
weather. 

Down  the  street  came  Cris  Mead  on  his  way  to  the  bank, 
silent  Cris,  whose  business  sense  and  moral  worth 
helped  to  make  Springvale.  He  saw  my  father  at  the 
window,  and  each  waved  the  other  a  military  salute. 
Presently  Father  Le  Claire,  almost  a  stranger  to  Spring- 
vale  now,  came  up  the  street  with  Dr.  Hemingway,  but 
neither  of  them  looked  toward  the  courthouse.  Other 
folks  went  up  and  down  unnoted,  until  Marjie  passed  by 
with  her  music  roll  under  her  arm.  Her  dark  blue  coat 
and  scarlet  cap  made  a  rich  bit  of  color  on  the  gray 
street,  and  her  fair  face  with  the  bloom  of  health  on 
her  cheek,  her  springing  step,  and  her  quiet  grace,  made 
her  a  picture  good  to  see.  John  Baronet  rose  and  stood  at 
the  window  watching  her.  She  lifted  her  eyes  and  smiled 
a  pleasant  good-morning  greeting  and  went  on  her  way. 
Some  one  entered  the  room,  and  with  the  picture  of  Marjie 
still  in  his  eyes,  he  turned  to  see  Lettie  Conlow.  She 
was  flashily  dressed,  and  a  handsome  new  fur  cape  was 
clasped  about  her  shoulders.  Self-possession,  the  lifetime 
habit  of  the  lawyer  and  judge,  kept  his  countenance  im- 
passive. He  bade  her  a  courteous  good-morning  and  gave 
her  a  chair,  but  the  story  he  had  already  read  in  her  face 
made  him  sick  at  heart.  He  knew  the  ways  of  the  world, 
of  civil  courts,  of  men,  and  of  some  women;  so  he  waited 
to  see  what  turn  affairs  would  take.  His  manner,  how- 
ever, had  that  habitual  dignified  kindliness  that  bound 

397 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

people  to  him,  and  made  them  trust  him  even  when  he 
was  pitted  with  all  his  strength  against  their  cause. 

Lettie  had  boasted  much  of  what  she  could  do.  She 
had  refused  all  of  O'mie's  well-meant  counsel,  and  she  had 
been  friends  with  envy  and  hatred  so  long  that  they  had 
become  her  masters. 

It  must  have  been  a  strange  combination  of  events  that 
could  take  her  now  to  the  man  upon  whom  she  would  so 
willingly  have  brought  sorrow  and  disgrace.  But  a  pas- 
sionate, wilful  nature  such  as  hers  knows  little  of  con- 
sistency or  control. 

"Judge  Baronet,"  Lettie  began  in  a  voice  not  like  the 
bold  belligerent  Lettie  of  other  days,  "  I  've  come  to  you 
for  help." 

He  sat  down  opposite  her,  with  his  back  to  the  window. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Lettie?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  girl  answered  confusedly.  "  I 
don't  know  —  how  much  to  tell  you." 

John  Baronet  looked  steadily  at  her  a  moment.  Then 
he  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  He  was  a  shrewd  student 
of  human  nature,  and  he  could  sometimes  read  the  minds 
of  men  and  women  better  than  they  read  themselves. 
"  She  has  not  come  to  accuse,  but  to  get  my  help,"  was 
his  conclusion. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,  Lettie,  and  as  much  of  it  as  I  need 
to  know,"  he  said  kindly.  "  Otherwise,  I  cannot  help  you 
at  all." 

Lettie  sat  silent  a  little  while.  A  struggle  was  going 
on  within  her,  the  strife  of  ill-will  against  submission  and 
penitent  humiliation.  Some  men  might  not  have  been 
able  to  turn  the  struggle,  but  my  father  understood.  The 
girl  looked  up  at  length  with  a  pleading  glance.  She  had 
helped  to  put  misery  in  two  lives  dear  to  the  man  before 
her.  She  had  even  tried  to  drag  down  to  disgrace  the 

398 


THE    CRY     OF    WOMANHOOD 

son  on  whom  his  being  centred.  In  no  way  could  she 
interest  him,  for  his  ideals  of  life  were  all  at  variance 
with  hers.  Small  wonder,  if  distrust  and  an  unforgiving 
spirit  should  be  his  that  day.  But  as  tfiis  man  of  wide 
experience  and  large  ideals  of  right  and  justice  looked  at 
this  poor  erring  girl,  he  put  away  everything  but  the  de- 
termination to  help  her. 

"  Lettie,"  he  said  in  that  deep  strong  voice  that  carried 
a  magnetic  power,  "  I  know  some  things  you  do  not  want 
to  tell.  It  is  not  what  you  have  done,  but  what  you  are 
to  do  that  you  must  consider  now." 

"That's  just  it,  Mr.  Baronet,"  Lettie  cried.  "I've 
done  wrong,  I  know,  but  so  have  other  people.  I  can't 
help  some  things  I  've  done  to  some  folks  now.  It  *s  too 
late.  And  I  hated  'em." 

The  old  sullen  look  was  coming  back,  and  her  black 
brows  were  drawn  in  a  frown.  My  father  was  quick  to 
note  the  change. 

"  Never  mind  what  can't  be  helped,  Lettie,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  A  good  many  things  right  themselves  in  spite 
of  our  misdoing.  But  let's  keep  now  to  what  you  can 
do,  to  what  I  can  do  for  you."  His  voice  was  full  of  a 
stern  kindness,  the  same  voice  that  had  made  me  walk 
the  straight  line  of  truth  and  honor  many  a  time  in  my 
boyhood. 

"  You  can  summon  Amos  Judson  here  and  make  him 
do  as  he  has  promised  to  do."  Lettie  cried,  the  hot  tears 
filling  her  eyes. 

"  Tell  me  his  promise  first,"  her  counsel  said.  And 
Lettie  told  him  her  story.  As  she  went  on  from  point 
to  point,  she  threw  reserve  to  the  winds,  and  gave  word 
to  many  thoughts  she  had  meant  to  keep  from  him.  When 
she  had  finished,  John  Baronet  sat  with  his  eyes  on  the 
floor  a  little  while. 

399 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  Lettie,  you  want  help,  and  you  need  it ;  and  you  de- 
serve it  on  one  condition  only,"  he  said  slowly. 

"What's  that?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"That  you  also  be  just  to  others.  That's  fair,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  she  agreed.  Her  soul  was  possessed  with 
a  selfish  longing  for  her  own  welfare,  but  she  was  before 
a  just  and  honorable  judge  now,  in  an  atmosphere  of  right 
thinking. 

"  You  know  my  son  Phil,  have  known  him  many  years. 
Although  he  is  my  boy,  I  cannot  shield  him  if  he  does 
wrong.  Sin  carries  its  own  penalty  sooner  or  later.  Tell 
me  the  truth  now,  as  you  must  answer  for  yourself  some- 
time before  the  almighty  and  ever-living  God,  has  Philip 
Baronet  ever  wronged  you?" 

How  deep  and  solemn  his  tones  were.  They  drove  the 
frivolous  trifling  spirit  out  of  Lettie,  and  a  sense  of  awe 
and  fear  of  lying  suddenly  possessed  her.  She  dropped 
her  eyes.  The  old  trickery  and  evil  plotting  were  of  no 
avail  here.  She  durst  do  nothing  but  tell  the  truth. 

"He  never  did  mistreat  me,"  she  murmured,  hardly 
above  a  whisper. 

"  He  took  you  home  from  the  Andersons'  party  the 
night  Dave  Mead  was  at  Red  Range?  "  queried  my  father. 

Lettie  nodded. 

"Of  his  own  choice? " 

She  shook  her  head.    "  Amos  asked  him  to,"  she  said. 

"  And  you  told  him  good-bye  at  your  own  door?  " 

Another  nod. 

"  Did  you  see  him  again  that  night?  " 

"  Yes."     Lettie's  cheeks  were  scarlet. 

"  Who  took  you  home  the  second  time  ?  " 

A  confusion  of  face,  and  then  Lettie  put  her  head  on  the 
table  before  her. 

400 


THE    CRY     OF    WOMANHOOD 

"  Tell  me,  Lettie.  It  will  open  the  way  for  me  to  help 
you.  Don't  spare  anybody  except  yourself.  You  need 
not  be  too  hard  on  yourself.  Those  who  should  befriend 
you  can  lay  all  the  blame  you  can  bear  on  your  shoulders." 
He  smiled  kindly  on  her. 

"  Judge  Baronet,  I  was  a  bad  girl.  It  was  Amos  prom- 
ising me  jewelry  and  ribbons  if  I'd  do  what  he  wanted, 
making  me  think  he  would  marry  me  if  he  could.  I  hated 
a  girl  because — "  She  stopped,  and  her  cheeks  flamed 
deeply. 

"  Never  mind  about  the  girl.  Tell  me  where  you  were, 
and  with  whom." 

"  I  was  out  on  the  West  Prairie,  just  a  little  way,  not 
very  far.  I  was  coming  home." 

"  With  Phil?  "  My  father  did  not  comment  on  the  im- 
prudence of  a  girl  out  on  the  West  Prairie  at  this  improper 
hour. 

"  No,  no.  I  —  I  came  home  with  Bud  Anderson." 
Then,  seeing  only  the  kind  strong  pitying  face  of  the  man 
before  her,  she  told  him  all  he  wanted  to  know.  Would 
have  told  him  more,  but  he  gently  prevented  her,  sparing 
her  all  he  could.  When  she  had  finished,  he  spoke,  and 
his  tones  were  full  of  feeling. 

"  In  no  way,  then,  has  Philip  ever  done  you  any  wrong? 
Have  you  ever  known  him  to  deceive  anybody?  Has  he 
been  a  young  man  of  double  dealing,  coarse  and  rude  with 
some  company  and  refined  with  others?  A  father  cannot 
know  all  that  his  children  do.  James  Conlow  has  little 
notion  of  what  you  have  told  me  of  yourself.  Now  don't 
spare  my  boy  if  you  know  anything." 

"  Oh,  Judge  Baronet,  Phil  never  did  a  thing  but  be  a 
gentleman  all  his  life.     It  made  me  mad  to  see  how  every- 
body liked  him,  and  yet  I  don't  know  how  they  could  help 
it."    The  tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheeks  now. 
26  401 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

And  then  the  thought  of  her  own  troubles  swept  other 
things  away,  and  she  would  again  have  begged  my  father 
to  befriend  her,  but  his  kind  face  gave  her  comfort. 

"  Lettie,  go  back  to  the  store  now.  I  '11  send  a  note  to 
Judson  and  call  him  here.  If  I  need  you,  I  will  let  you 
know.  If  I  can  do  it,  I  will  help  you.  I  think  I  can. 
But  most  of  all,  you  must  help  yourself.  When  you  are 
free  of  this  tangle,  you  must  keep  your  heart  with  all 
diligence.  Good-bye,  and  take  care,  take  care  of  every 
step.  Be  a  good  woman,  Lettie,  and  the  mistakes  and 
wrong-doing  of  your  girlhood  will  be  forgotten." 

As  Lettie  went  slowly  down  the  walk,  to  the  street,  my 
father  looked  steadily  after  her.  "  Wronged,  deceived, 
neglected,  undisciplined,"  he  murmured.  "  If  I  set  her  on 
her  feet,  she  may  only  drop  again.  She  's  a  Conlow,  but 
I  '11  do  my  best.  I  can't  do  otherwise.  Thank  God  for 
a  son  free  from  her  net." 


402 


CHAPTER    XXV 
JUDSON    SUMMONED 

Though  the  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly, 
Yet  they  grind  exceeding  small. 

—  FRIEDRICH  VON  LOGAN. 

HALF  an  hour  later  Amos  Judson  was  hurrying  toward 
the  courthouse  with  a  lively  strut  in  his  gait,  an- 
swering a  summons  from  Judge  Baronet  asking  his  im- 
mediate presence  in  the  Judge's  office. 

The  irony  of  wrong-doing  lies  much  in  the  deception  it 
practises  on  the  wrong-doer,  blunting  his  sense  of  danger 
while  it  blunts  his  conscience,  leading  him  blindly  to 
choose  out  for  himself  a  way  to  destruction.  The  little 
widower  was  jubilant  over  the  summons  to  the  court- 
house. 

"  Good-morning,  Baronet,"  he  cried  familiarly  as  soon 
as  he  was  inside  the  door  of  the  private  office.  "  You 
sent  for  me,  I  see." 

My  father  returned  his  greeting  and  pointed  to  a  chair. 
"  Yes,  I  sent  for  you.  I  told  you  I  would  when  I  wanted 
to  see  you,"  he  said,  sitting  down  across  the  table  from 
the  sleek  little  man. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember,  so  you  did.  That 's  it,  you  did. 
I  *ve  not  been  back  since,  knowing  you  'd  send  for  me ; 
and  then,  I  'm  a  business  man  and  can't  be  loafing.  But 
now  this  means  business.  That 's  it,  business ;  when  a 
man  like  Baronet  calls  for  a  man  like  me,  it  means  some- 

403 

v. 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

thing.  After  all,  I  'm  right  glad  that  the  widow  did  speak 
to  you.  I  was  a  little  hard  on  her,  maybe.  But,  con- 
found it,  a  mother-in-law 's  like  a  wife,  only  worse.  Your 
wife's  got  to  obey,  anyhow.  The  preacher  settles  that, 
but  you  must  up  and  make  your  mother-in-law  obey. 
Now  ain't  that  right?  You  waited  a  good  while;  but  I 
says,  *  Let  him  think.  Give  him  time/  That 's  it,  '  give 
him  time/  But  to  tell  the  truth  I  was  getting  a  little 
nervous,  because  matters  must  be  fixed  up  right  away. 
I  don't  like  to  boast,  but  I  Ve  got  the  whip  hand  right 
now.  Funny  how  a  man  gets  to  the  top  in  a  town  like 
this."  Oh,  the  poor  little  knave!  Whom  the  gods  de- 
stroy they  first  make  silly,  at  least. 

"And  by  the  way,  did  you  settle  it  with  the  widow, 
too?  I  hope  you  did.  You'd  be  proud  of  me  for  a  son, 
now  Phil 's  clear  out  of  it.  And  you  and  Mrs.  Whately  'd 
make  the  second  handsomest  couple  in  this  town."  He 
giggled  at  his  own  joke.  "  But  say  now,  Baronet,  it 's 
took  you  an  awful  time  to  make  up  your  mind.  What 's 
been  the  matter?  "  His  familiarity  and  impudence  were 
insufferable  in  themselves. 

"  I  had  n't  all  the  evidence  I  needed,"  my  father  an- 
swered calmly. 

In  spite  of  his  gay  spirits  and  lack  of  penetration  that 
word  "  evidence  "  grated  on  Judson  a  little. 

"  Don't  call  it  '  evidence '  ;  sounds  too  legal,  and  no- 
body understands  the  law,  not  even  the  lawyers/'  He 
giggled  again.  "  Let 's  get  to  business."  A  harsher  tone 
in  spite  of  himself  was  in  his  voice. 

"  We  will  begin  at  once,"  my  father  declared.  "  When 
you  were  here  last  Summer  I  was  not  ready  to  deal  with 
you.  The  time  has  come  for  us  to  have  an  understanding. 
Do  you  prefer  any  witness  or  counsel,  or  shall  we  settle 
this  alone?" 

404 


JUDSON     SUMMONED 

Judson  looked  up  nervously  into  my  father's  face,  but 
he  read  nothing  there. 

"I  —  well,  I  don't  know  quite  what  you  mean.  No,  I 
don't  want  no  witnesses,  and  I  won't  have  'em,  confound 
it.  This  is  between  us  as  man  to  man;  and  don't  you 
try  to  bring  in  no  law  on  this,  because  you  know  law 
books.  This  is  our  own  business  and  nobody  else's.  I  'd 
knock  my  best  friend  out  of  the  door  if  he  come  poking 
into  my  private  matters,  Why,  man  alive !  this  is  sacred. 
That's  it  — an  affair  of  the  heart.  Now  be  careful." 
His  voice  was  high  and  angry  and  his  self-control  was 
slipping. 

"  Amos  Judson,  I  Ve  listened  patiently  to  your  words. 
Patiently,  too,  I  have  watched  your  line  of  action,  for 
three  years.  Ever  since  I  came  home  from  the  war  I 
have  followed  your  business  methods  carefully." 

The  little  man  before  him  was  turning  yellow  in  spite 
of  his  self-assurance  and  reliance  on  his  twin  gods,  money 
and  deception,  to  carry  him  through  any  vicissitude.  He 
made  one  more  effort  to  bring  the  matter  to  his  own 
view. 

"  Now,  don't  be  so  serious,  Baronet.  This  is  a  little 
love  affair  of  mine.  If  you're  interested,  all  right;  if 
not,  let  it  go.  That 's  it,  let  it  go,  and  I  'm  through  with 
you."  He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  But  I  'm  not  through  with  you.  Sit  down.  I  sent 
for  you  because  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  am  not  through 
with  this  interview.  Whether  it's  to  be  the  last  or  not 
will  depend  on  conditions." 

Judson  was  very  uncomfortable  and  blindly  angry,  but 
he  sat  as  directed. 

"  When  I  came  home,  I  found  you  in  possession  of  all 
the  funds  left  by  my  friend,  Irving  Whately,  to  his  wife 
and  child.  A  friend's  interest  led  me  to  investigate  the 

405 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

business  fallen  to  you.  Irving  begged  me,  when  his  mor- 
tal hours  were  few,  to  befriend  his  loved  ones.  It  did  n't 
take  long  to  discover  how  matters  were  shaping  them- 
selves. But  understanding  and  belief  are  one  thing,  and 
legal  evidence  is  another." 

"  What  was  it  your  business?  "  Judson  stormed.  My 
father  rose  and,  going  to  his  cabinet,  he  took  from  an 
inner  drawer  a  folded  yellow  bit  of  paper  torn  from  a 
note  book.  Through  the  centre  of  it  was  a  ragged  little 
hole,  the  kind  a  bullet  might  have  cut. 

"This,"  he  said,  "was  in  Whately's  notebook.  We 
found  it  in  his  pocket.  The  bullet  that  killed  him  went 
through  it,  and  was  deadened  a  trifle  by  it,  sparing  his 
life  a  little  longer.  These  words  he  had  written  in  camp 
the  night  before  that  battle  at  Missionary  Ridge : 

"  *  If  I  am  killed  in  battle  I  want  John  Baronet  to  take 
care  of  my  wife  and  child/  It  was  witnessed  by  Cris  Mead 
and  Howard  Morton.  Morton's  in  the  hospital  in  the 
East  now,  but  Cris  is  down  in  the  bank.  Both  of  their 
signatures  are  here." 

Judson  sat  still  and  sullen. 

"  This  is  why  it  was  my  business  to  find  out,  at  least, 
if  all  was  well  with  Mrs.  Whately  and  her  daughter.  It 
wasn't  well,  and  I  set  about  making  it  well.  I  had  no 
further  personal  interest  than  this  then.  Later,  when  my 
son  became  interested  in  the  Whately  family,  I  dropped 
the  matter  —  first,  because  I  could  not  go  on  without 
giving  a  wrong  impression  of  my  motives;  and  secondly, 
because  I  knew  my  boy  could  make  up  to  Marjie  the  loss 
of  their  money." 

"  Phil  has  n't  any  property,"  the  widower  broke  in,  the 
ruling  passion  still  controlling  him. 

"  None  of  Whately's  property,  no,"  my  father  replied ; 
"  but  he  has  a  wage-earning  capacity  which  is  better  than 


JUDSON     SUMMONED 

all  the  ill-begotten  property  anybody  may  fraudulently 
gather  together.  Anyhow,  I  reasoned  that  if  my  boy  and 
Whately's  girl  cared  for  each  other,  I  would  not  be  con- 
nected with  any  of  their  property  matters.  I  have,  how- 
ever, secured  a  widow's  pension  and  some  back-pay  for 
Mrs.  Whately,  and  not  a  minute  too  soon."  He  smiled  a 
little.  "  Oh,  yes,  Tell  Mapleson  went  East  on  the  same 
train  I  did  in  October.  I  just  managed  to  outwit  him  in 
time,  and  all  his  affidavits  and  other  documents  were  use- 
less. He  would  have  cut  off  that  bit  of  assistance  from  a 
soldier's  widow  to  help  your  cause.  It  would  have  added 
much  value  to  your  stock  if  Irving  Whately's  name  should 
have  been  so  dishonored  at  Washington  that  his  wife 
should  receive  no  pension  for  his  service  and  his  last  great 
sacrifice.  But  so  long  as  Phil  and  Marjie  were  betrothed, 
I  let  your  business  alone." 

Judson  could  not  suppress  a  grin  of  satisfaction. 

"  Now  that  there  is  no  bond  other  than  friendship  be- 
tween the  two  families,  and  especially  since  Marjie  has 
begged  me  to  take  hold  of  it,  I  have  probed  this  business  of 
yours  to  the  bottom.  Don't  make  any  mistake,"  he  added, 
as  Judson  took  on  a  sly  look  of  disbelief.  "  You  will  be 
safer  to  accept  that  fact  now.  Drop  the  notion  that  your 
tracks  are  covered.  I  've  waited  for  some  time,  so  that 
one  sitting  would  answer." 

There  was  a  halting  between  cowardly  cringing  and  de- 
fiance, overlaid  all  with  a  perfect  insanity  of  anger;  for 
Judson  had  lost  all  self-control. 

"  You  don't  know  one  thing  about  my  business,  and 
you  can't  prove  a  word  you  say,  you  infernal,  lying,  old 
busybody,  not  one  thing,"  he  fairly  hissed  in  his  rage. 

John  Baronet  rose  to  his  full  height,  six  feet  and  two 
inches.  Clasping  his  hands  behind  his  back  he  looked 
steadily  down  at  Judson  until  the  little  man  trembled. 

407 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

No  bluster,  nor  blows,  could  have  equalled  the  supremacy 
of  that  graceful  motion  and  that  penetrating  look. 

"It  takes  cannon  for  the  soldier,  the  rope  for  the  as- 
sassin, the  fist  for  the  rowdy;  but,  by  Heaven!  it's  a 
ludicrous  thing  to  squander  gunpowder  when  insect  pow- 
der will  accomplish  the  same  results.  I  told  you,  I  had 
waited  until  I  had  the  evidence,"  he  said.  "  Now  you  are 
going  to  listen  while  I  speak." 

It  isn't  the  fighter,  but  the  man  with  the  fighting 
strength,  who  wins  the  last  battle.  Judson  cowered  down 
in  his  chair  and  dropped  his  eyes,  while  my  father  seated 
himself  and  went  on. 

"  Before  Irving  Whately  went  to  the  war  he  had  me 
draw  up  a  will.  You  witnessed  it.  It  listed  his  property 
—  the  merchandise,  the  real  estate,  the  bank  stock,  the 
cash  deposits,  and  the  personal  effects.  One  half  of  this 
was  to  become  Marjie's  at  the  age  of  twenty  (Marjie  was 
twenty  on  Christmas  Day),  and  the  whole  of  it  in  the 
event  of  her  mother's  death.  He  did  not  contemplate  his 
wife's  second  marriage,  you  see.  That  will,  with  other 
valuable  papers,  was  put  into  the  vault  here  in  the  court- 
house for  safe  keeping,  and  you  carried  the  key.  While 
most  of  the  loyal,  able-bodied  men  were  fighting  for  their 
country's  safety,  you  were  steadily  drawing  on  the  bank 
account  in  the  pretence  of  using  it  for  the  store.  No- 
body can  find  from  your  bookkeeping  how  matters  were 
in  that  business  during  those  years. 

"  On  the  night  Springvale  was  to  be  burned,  you  raided 
the  courthouse,  taking  these  and  other  papers  away,  be- 
cause you  thought  the  courthouse  was  to  be  burned  that 
night.  Mapleson  got  mixed  up  in  his  instructions,  you 
remember,  and  Dodd  nearly  lost  his  good  name  in  his 
effort  to  get  these  same  papers  out  of  the  courthouse  to 
burn  them.  You  and  Tell  didn't  *  tote  fair*  with  him, 

408 


JUDSON     SUMMONED 

and  he  thought  you  were  here  in  town.  You  wouldn't 
have  treated  the  parson  well,  had  your  infamous  scheme 
succeeded.  But  you  were  not  in  town.  You  left  your 
sick  baby  and  faithful  wife  to  carry  that  will  and  that 
property-list  out  to  the  old  stone  cabin,  where  you  hid 
them.  You  meant  to  go  back  and  destroy  them  after 
you  had  examined  them  more  carefully.  But  you  never 
could  find  them  again.  They  were  taken  from  your 
hiding-place  and  put  in  another  place.  You  thought  you 
were  alone  out  there ;  also  you  thought  you  had  outwitted 
Dodd.  You  could  manage  the  Methodist  Church  South, 
but  you  failed  to  reckon  with  the  Roman  Catholics. 
While  you  were  searching  the  draw  to  get  back  across  the 
flood,  Father  Le  Claire,  wet  from  having  swum  the  Neo- 
sho  up  above  there,  stopped  to  rest  in  the  gray  of  the 
morning.  You  did  n't  see  him,  but  he  saw  you." 

My  father  paused  and,  turning  his  back  on  the  cowardly 
form  in  the  chair,  walked  to  the  window.  Presently  he 
sat  down  again. 

"  Mrs.  Whately  was  crushed  with  grief  over  her  hus- 
band's death;  she  was  trustful  and  utterly  ignorant  in 
business  matters ;  and  in  these  circumstances  you  secured 
her  signature  to  a  deed  for  the  delivery  of  all  her  bank 
stock  to  you.  She  had  no  idea  what  all  that  paper  meant. 
She  only  wanted  to  be  alone  with  her  overwhelming  sor- 
row. I  need  not  go  through  that  whole  story  of  how 
steadily,  by  fraud,  and  misuse,  and  downright  lie,  you 
have  eaten  away  her  property,  getting  everything  into 
your  own  name,  until  now  you  would  turn  the  torture 
screw  and  force  a  marriage  to  secure  the  remnant  of  the 
Whately  estate,  you  greedy,  grasping  villain! 

"  But  defrauding  Irving  Whately's  heirs  and  getting 
possession  of  that  store  is  n't  the  full  limit  of  your  *  busi- 
ness.' You  and  Tell  Mapleson,  after  cutting  Dodd  and 

409 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

Conlow  out  of  the  game,  using  Conlow  only  as  a  cat's 
paw,  you  two  have  been  conducting  a  systematic  com- 
merce on  commission  with  one  Jean  Pahusca,  highway 
robber  and  cut-throat,  who  brings  in  money  and  small 
articles  of  value  stolen  in  Topeka  and  Kansas  City  and 
even  St.  Louis,  with  the  plunder  that  could  be  gathered 
along  the  way,  all  stored  in  the  old  stone  cabin  loft  and 
slipped  in  here  after  dark  by  as  soft-footed  a  scoundrel 
as  ever  wore  a  moccasin.  You  and  Tell  divide  the  plun- 
der and  promise  Jean  help  to  do  his  foes  to  death  —  fos- 
tering his  savage  blood-thirsty  spirit." 

"  You  can't  prove  that.  Jean's  word  's  no  good  in  law ; 
and  you  never  found  it  out  through  Le  Claire.  He 's 
Jean's  father;  Dodd  says  so."  Judson  was  choking  with 
rage. 

"  The  priest  can  answer  that  charge  for  himself,"  my 
father  said  calmly.  "  No,  it  was  your  head  clerk,  Thomas 
O'Meara,  who  took  a  ten  days'  vacation  and  stayed  at 
night  up  in  the  old  stone  cabin  for  his  health.  You  know 
he  has  weak  lungs.  He  found  out  many  things,  even 
Jean's  fear  of  ghosts.  That 's  the  Indian  in  Jean.  The 
redskin  doesn't  live  that  isn't  afraid  of  a  ghost,  and 
O'mie  makes  a  good  one.  This  traffic  has  netted  you  and 
Mapleson  shamefully  large  amounts. 

"Where's  my  evidence?"  he  asked,  as  Judson  was 
about  to  speak.  "  Ever  since  O'mie  went  into  the  store, 
your  books  have  been  kept,  and  incidentally  your  patron- 
age has  increased.  That  Irishman  is  shrewd  and  to  the 
last  penny  accurate.  All  your  goods  delivered  by  Dever's 
stage,  or  other  freight,  with  receipts  for  the  same  are 
recorded.  All  the  goods  brought  in  through  Jean's  agency 
have  been  carefully  tabulated.  This  record,  sworn  to  be- 
fore old  Joseph  Mead,  Cris's  father,  as  notary,  and  wit- 

410 


JUDSON     SUMMONED 

nessed  by  Cam  Gentry,  Cris  Mead,  and  Dr.  Hemingway, 
lies  sealed  and  safe  in  the  bank  vault. 

"  One  piece  of  your  trickery  has  a  double  bearing ;  here, 
and  in  another  line.  Your  books  show  that  gold  rings, 
a  watch  chain,  sundry  articles  of  a  woman's  finery  charged 
to  Marjory  Whately,  taken  from  her  mother's  income, 
were  given  as  presents  to  another  girl.  Among  them  are 
a  handsome  fur  collar  which  Lettie  Conlow  had  on  this 
very  morning,  and  some  beautiful  purple  ribbon,  a  large 
bow  of  which  fastened  with  a  valuable  pin  set  with  bril- 
liants I  have  here." 

He  opened  a  drawer  of  his  desk  and  lifted  out  the  big 
bow  of  purple  ribbon  which  Lettie  lost  on  the  day  Marjie 
and  I  went  out  to  the  haunted  cabin.  "  In  your  stupid 
self-conceit  you  refused  to  grant  a  measure  of  good  com- 
mon sense  and  powers  of  observation  to  those  about  you. 
I  have  seen  your  kind  before ;  but  not  often,  thank  God ! " 

My  father  paused,  and  the  two  sat  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments.  Judson  evidently  fancied  his  case  closed  and 
he  was  beginning  to  hunt  for  a  way  out,  when  his  ac- 
cuser spoke  again. 

"  Your  business  transactions,  however,  rank  as  they  are, 
cannot  equal  your  graver  deeds.  Human  nature  is  selfish, 
and  a  love  of  money  has  filled  many  a  man's  soul  with 
moth  and  rust.  You  are  not  the  only  man  who,  to  get 
a  fortune,  turned  the  trick  so  often  that  when  an  oppor- 
tunity came  to  steal,  he  was  ready  and  eager  for  the 
chance.  Some  men  never  get  caught,  or  being  known,  are 
never  brought  to  the  bar  of  account;  but  you  have  been 
found  out  as  a  thief  and  worse  than  a  thief;  you  have 
tried  to  destroy  a  good  man's  reputation.  With  words 
that  were  false,  absolutely  false,  you  persuaded  a  defence- 
less woman  that  her  noble  husband  —  wearing  now  the 

411 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

martyr's  crown  of  victory  —  you  .  persuaded  her,  I  say, 
that  this  man  had  done  the  things  you  yourself  have 
done  in  his  name  —  that  he  was  a  business  failure,  a  trick- 
ster, and  an  embezzler.  With  Tell  Mapleson  and  James 
Conlow  and  some  of  that  Confederate  gang  from  Fingal's 
Creek,  swearing  to  false  affidavits,  you  made  Mrs.  Whately 
believe  that  his  name  was  about  to  be  dishonored  for 
wrongs  done  in  his  business  and  for  fraudulent  dealing 
which  you,  after  three  years  of  careful  sheltering,  would 
no  longer  hide  unless  she  gave  her  daughter  to  you  in 
marriage.  For  these  days  of  wearing  grief  to  Mrs. 
Whately  you  can  never  atone.  You  and  Tell,  as  I  said  a 
while  ago,  almost  succeeded  in  your  scheme  at  Washing- 
ton. To  my  view  this  is  infinitely  worse  than  taking 
Irving  Whately's  property. 

"All  this  has  been  impersonal  to  me,  except  as  the 
wrongs  and  sorrows  of  a  friend  can  hurt.  But  I  come 
now  to  my  own  personal  interest.  And  where  that  is 
concerned  a  man  may  always  express  himself." 

Judson  broke  out  at  this  point  unable  to  restrain  him- 
self further. 

"  Baronet,  you  need  n't  mind.  You  and  me  have  noth- 
ing in  the  world  in  common." 

My  father  held  back  a  smile  of  assent  to  this. 

"  All  I  ever  did  was  to  suggest  a  good  way  for  you  to 
help  Mrs.  Whately,  best  way  in  the  world  you  could  help 
her  if  you  really  feel  so  bad  about  her.  But  you  would  n't 
do  it.  I  just  urged  it  as  good  for  all  parties.  That's 
it,  just  good  for  all  of  us;  and  it  would  have  been,  but 
I  didn't  command  you  to  it,  just  opened  the  way  to 
help  you." 

My  father  did  not  repress  the  smile  this  time,  for  the 
thought  of  Judson  commanding  him  was  too  much  to 
bear  unsmilingly.  The  humor  faded  in  a  moment,  how- 

412 


JUDSON     SUMMONED 

ever,  and  the  stern  man  of  justice  went  on  with  his 
charge. 

"  You  tried  to  bring  dishonor  upon  my  son  by  plans  that 
almost  won,  did  win  with  some  people.  You  adroitly 
set  on  foot  a  tale  of  disgraceful  action,  and  so  well  was 
your  work  done  that  only  Providence  prevented  the  ful- 
filling of  your  plans." 

"  He  is  a  fast  young  man ;  I  have  the  evidence,"  Judson 
cried  defiantly.  "  He 's  been  followed  and  watched  by 
them  that  know.  I  guess  if  you  take  Jean  Pahusca's  word 
about  the  goods  you'll  have  to  about  the  doings  of  Phil 
Baronet." 

"  No  doubt  about  Phil  being  followed  and  watched,  but 
as  to  taking  Jean  Pahusca's  word,  I  would  n't  take  it  on 
oath  about  anything,  not  a  whit  more  than  I  would  take 
yours.  When  a  man  stands  up  in  my  court  and  swears 
to  tell  the  truth  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  he  must  first  understand  what  truth  is  before  his 
oath  is  of  any  effect.  Neither  Jean  nor  you  have  that 
understanding.  Let  me  tell  you  a  story:  You  asked 
Phil  to  escort  Lettie  Conlow  home  one  night  in  August. 
About  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  Phil  went  from  his 
home  down  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  where  the  bushes  grow 
thick.  What  took  him  there  is  his  own  business.  It  is 
all  written  in  a  letter  that  I  can  get  possession  of  at  any 
time  that  I  need  it.  Lettie  was  there.  Why,  I  do  not 
know.  She  asked  him  to  go  home  with  her,  but  he  re- 
fused to  do  so." 

Judson  would  have  spoken  but  my  father  would  not 
permit  it  here. 

"  She  started  out  to  that  cabin  at  that  hour  of  the  night 
to  meet  you,  started  with  Jean  Pahusca,  as  you  had  com- 
manded her  to  do,  and  you  know  he  is  a  dangerous,  vil- 
lainous brute.  He  had  some  stolen  goods  at  the  cabin, 

413 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

and  you  wanted  Lettie  to  see  them,  you  said.  If  she 
could  not  entrap  Phil  that  night,  Jean  must  bring  her  out 
to  this  lonely  haunted  house.  You  led  the  prayer  meeting 
that  week  for  Dr.  Hemingway.  Amos  Judson,  so  long 
as  such  men  as  you  live,  there  is  still  need  for  guardian 
angels.  One  came  to  this  poor  wilful  erring  girl  that 
night  in  the  person  of  Bud  Anderson,  who  not  only  made 
her  tell  where  she  was  going,  but  persuaded  her  to  turn 
back,  and  he  saw  her  safe  within  her  own  home." 

"  It  's  Phil  that 's  deceived  her  and  been  her  downfall. 
I  can  prove  it  by  Lettie  herself.  She 's  a  very  warm 
friend  and  admirer  of  mine." 

"  She  told  me  in  this  room  not  two  hours  ago  that  Phil 
had  never  done  her  wrong.  It  was  she  who  asked  to 
have  you  summoned  here  this  morning,  although  I  was 
ready  for  you  anyhow." 

The  end  of  Judson's  rope  was  in  sight  now.  He  col- 
lapsed in  his  chair  into  a  little  heap  of  whining  fear  and 
self-abasement. 

"  Your  worst  crime,  Judson,  is  against  this  girl.  You 
have  used  her  for  your  tool,  your  accomplice,  and  your 
villainously  base  purposes.  You  bribed  her,  with  gifts 
she  coveted,  to  do  your  bidding.  You  lived  a  double  life, 
filling  her  ears  with  promises  you  meant  only  to  break. 
Even  your  pretended  engagement  to  Marjie  you  kept  from 
her,  and  when  she  found  it  out,  you  declared  it  was  false. 
And  more,  when  with  her  own  ears  she  heard  you  assert 
it  as  a  fact,  you  sought  to  pacify  her  with  promises  of 
pleasures  bought  with  sin.  You  are  a  property  thief,  a 
receiver  of  stolen  goods,  a  defamer  of  character.  Your 
hand  was  on  the  torch  to  burn  this  town.  You  juggled 
with  the  official  records  in  the  courthouse.  You  would 
basely  deceive  and  marry  a  girl  whose  consent  could  be 
given  only  to  save  her  father's  memory  from  stain,  and 

414 


JUDSON     SUMMONED 

her  mother  from  a  broken  heart.  And  greatest  and  black- 
est of  all,  you  would  utterly  destroy  the  life  and  degrade 
the  soul  of  one  whose  erring  feet  we  owe  it  to  ourselves 
to  lead  back  to  straight  paths.  On  these  charges  I  have 
summoned  you  to  this  account.  Every  charge  I  have 
evidence  to  prove  beyond  any  shadow  of  question.  I  could 
call  you  before  the  civil  courts  at  once.  That  I  have  not 
done  it  has  not  been  for  my  son's  sake,  nor  for  Marjie's, 
nor  her  mother's,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  one  I  have  no 
personal  cause  to  protect,  the  worst  one  connected  with 
this  business  outside  of  yourself  and  that  scoundrel  Ma- 
pleson  —  for  the  sake  of  a  woman.  It  is  a  man's  business 
to  shield  her,  not  to  drag  her  down  to  perdition.  I  said 
I  would  send  for  you  when  it  was  time  for  you  to  come 
again,  when  I  was  ready  for  you.  I  have  sent  for  you. 
Now  you  must  answer  me." 

Judson,  sitting  in  a  crumpled-up  heap  in  the  big  arm- 
chair in  John  Baronet's  private  office,  tried  vainly  for  a 
time  to  collect  his  forces.  At  last  he  turned  to  the  one 
resource  we  all  seek  in  our  misdoing:  he  tried  to  justify 
himself  by  blaming  others. 

"  Judge  Baronet,"  his  high  thin  voice  always  turned  to 
a  whine  when  he  lowered  it.  "  Judge  Baronet,  I  don't  see 
why  I  'm  the  only  one  you  call  to  account.  There  's  Tell 
Mapleson  and  Jim  Conlow  and  the  Rev.  Dodd  and  a  lot 
more  done  and  planned  to  do  what  I  'd  never  'a  dreamed 
of.  Now,  why  do  I  have  to  bear  all  of  it  ?  " 

"  You  have  only  your  part  to  bear,  no  more ;  and  as  to 
Tell  Mapleson,  his  time  is  coming." 

"  I  think  I  might  have  some  help.  You  know  all  the 
law,  and  I  don't  know  any  law."  My  father  did  not  smile 
at  the  evident  truth  of  the  last  clause. 

"  You  can  have  all  the  law,  evidence,  and  witnesses  you 
choose.  You  may  carry  your  case  up  to  the  highest  court. 

415 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Law  is  my  business ;  but  I  '11  be  fair  and  say  to  you  that 
a  man's  case  is  sometimes  safer  settled  out  of  court,  if 
mercy  is  to  play  any  part.  I  've  no  cause  to  shield  you, 
but  I  'm  willing  you  should  know  this." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  court.  Tell  *s  told  me  over  and 
over  I  'd  never  have  a  ghost  of  a  show  " —  he  was  talking 
blindly  now  — "  I  want  somebody  to  shake  you  loose  from 
me.  That 's  it,  I  want  to  get  rid  of  you." 

"  How  much  time  will  it  require  to  get  your  counsel  and 
come  here  again?  " 

If  a  man  sells  his  soul  for  wealth,  the  hardest  trial  of 
his  life  comes  when  he  first  gets  face  to  face  with  the 
need  of  what  money  cannot  buy;  that  is,  loyalty.  Such 
a  trial  came  to  Judson  at  this  moment.  Mapleson  had 
warned  him  about  Baronet,  but  in  his  puny  egotistic  nar- 
rowness he  thought  himself  the  equal  of  the  best.  Now 
he  knew  that  neither  Mapleson  nor  any  other  of  the  crew 
with  whom  he  had  been  a  law-breaker  would  befriend 
him. 

"  They  ain't  one  of  'em  '11  stand  by  a  fellow  when  he  's 
down,  not  a  one,"  the  little  man  declared. 

"  No,  they  never  do ;  remember  that,"  John  Baronet  re- 
plied. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  you  want  ?  "  he  whined. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Settle  this  in  court  or 
out  of  it?" 

"Out  of  it,  out  of  it,"  Judson  fairly  shrieked.  "I'd 
be  put  out  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  if  this  gets  into 
the  courts.  I  've  got  a  bank  account  I  'm  not  ashamed 
of.  How  much  is  it  going  to  take  to  settle  it?  What's 
the  least  will  satisfy  you?  " 

"Settle  it?  Satisfy  me?  Great  heavens!  Can  a  ca- 
reer like  this  be  atoned  for  with  a  bank  check  and  interest 
at  eight  per  cent?  "  My  father's  disgust  knew  no  bounds. 


JUDSON     SUMMONED 

"  You  are  going  to  turn  over  to  the  account  of  Marjory 
Whately  an  amount  equal  to  one-half  the  value  of 
Whately's  estate  at  the  time  of  his  death,  with  a  legal 
rate  of  interest,  which  according  to  his  will  she  was  to 
receive  at  the  age  of  twenty.  The  will,"  my  father  went 
on,  as  he  read  a  certain  look  in  Judson's  face,  "  is  safe  in 
the  vault  of  the  courthouse,  and  there  are  no  keys  avail- 
able to  the  box  that  holds  it.  Also,  you  are  going  to  pay 
in  money  the  value  of  all  the  articles  charged  to  Marjory 
Whately's  account  and  given  to  other  people,  mostly 
young:  ladies,  and  especially  to  Lettie  Conlow.  Your 
irregular  business  methods  in  the  management  of  that 
store  since  O'mie  began  to  keep  your  records  you  are 
going  to  make  straight  and  honest  by  giving  all  that  is 
overdue  to  your  senior  partner,  Mrs.  Irving  Whately. 
Furthermore,  you  are  going  to  give  an  account  for  the 
bank  stock  fraudulently  secured  in  the  days  of  Mrs. 
Whately's  deep  sorrow.  This  much  for  your  property 
transactions.  You  can  give  it  at  once  or  stand  suit  for 
embezzlement.  I  have  the  amounts  all  listed  here.  I 
know  your  bank  account  and  property  possession.  Will 
you  sign  the  papers  now?  " 

"  But  —  but,"  Judson  began.  "  I  can't.  It  '11  take  more 
than  half,  yes,  all  but  two-thirds,  I  've  got  to  my  name. 
I  can't  do  it.  I  '11  have  to  hire  to  somebody  if  I  do." 

"  You  miserable  cur,  the  pity  is  you  can't  make  up  all 
that  you  owe  but  that  cannot  be  proved  by  any  available 
record.  Only  one  thing  keeps  me  back  from  demanding 
a  full  return  for  all  your  years  of  thieving  stewardship." 

"  Isn't  that  all?  "  Judson  asked. 

"  Not  yet.     You  cannot  make  returns  for  some  things. 

If  it  were  all  a  money  proposition  it  would  be  simple. 

The  other  thing  you  are  going  to  do,  now  mark  me,  I  've 

left  you  the  third  of  your  gains  for  it.     You  are  going  to 

27  4I7 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

make  good  your  promise  to  Lettie  Conlow,  and  you  will 
do  it  now.  You  will  give  her  your  name,  the  title  of 
wife.  Your  property  under  the  Kansas  law  becomes  hers 
also ;  her  children  become  the  heirs  to  your  estate.  These, 
with  an  honest  life  following,  are  the  only  conditions  that 
can  save  you  from  the  penitentiary,  as  an  embezzler,  a 
receiver  of  stolen  goods,  a  robber  of  county  records,  a 
defamer  of  innocent  men,  an  accomplice  in  helping  an 
Indian  to  steal  a  white  girl,  and  a  libertine. 

"  I  shall  not  release  the  evidence,  nor  withdraw  the 
power  to  bring  you  down  the  minute  you  break  over  the 
restrictions.  Amos  Judson,"  (there  was  a  terrible  stern- 
ness in  my  father's  voice,  as  he  stood  before  the  wretched 
little  man),  "  there  is  an  assize  at  which  you  will  be  tried, 
there  is  a  bar  whose  Judge  knows  the  heart  as  well  as 
the  deed,  and  for  both  you  must  answer  to  Him,  not  only 
for  the  things  in  which  I  give  you  now  the  chance  to  re- 
deem yourself,  but  for  those  crimes  for  which  the  law  may 
not  now  punish  you.  There  is  here  one  door  open  beside 
the  one  of  iron  bars,  and  that  is  the  door  to  an  honest  life. 
Redeem  your  past  by  the  future." 

For  the  person  who  could  have  seen  John  Baronet  that 
day,  who  could  have  heard  his  deep  strong  voice  and  felt 
the  power  of  his  magnetic  personality,  who  could  have 
been  lifted  up  by  the  very  strength  of  his  nobility  so  as  to 
realize  what  a  manhood  such  as  his  can  mean  —  for  one 
who  could  have  known  all  this  it  were  easy  to  see  to  how 
hard  a  task  I  have  set  my  pen  in  trying  to  picture  it  here. 

"  No  man's  life  is  an  utter  failure  until  he  votes  it  so 
himself."  My  father  did  not  relax  his  hold  for  a  mo- 
ment. "  You  must  square  yours  by  a  truer  line  and  lift 
up  to  your  own  plane  the  girl  you  have  promised  to  marry, 
and  prosperity  and  happiness  such  as  you  could  never 

418 


JUDSON     SUMMONED 

know  otherwise  will  come  to  you.  On  this  condition  only 
will  you  escape  the  full  penalty  of  the  law." 

The  little  widower  stood  up  at  last.  It  had  been  a  ter- 
rible grilling,  but  his  mind  and  body,  cramped  together, 
seemed  now  to  expand. 

"I'll  do  it,  Judge  Baronet.     Will  you  help  me?" 

He  put  out  his  hand  hesitatingly. 

My  father  took  it  in  his  own  strong  right  hand.  No 
man  or  woman,  whether  clothed  upon  with  virtue  or 
steeped  in  vice,  ever  reached  forth  a  hand  to  John  Baronet 
and  saw  in  his  face  any  shadow  of  hesitancy  to  receive 
it.  So  supreme  to  him  was  the  ultimate  value  of  each 
human  soul.  He  did  not  drop  the  hand  at  once,  but 
standing  there,  as  father  to  son  he  spoke: 

"  I  have  been  a  husband.  Through  all  these  long  years 
I  have  walked  alone-  and  lonely,  yearning  ever  for  the  hu- 
man presence  of  my  loved  one  lying  these  many  years 
under  the  churchyard  grasses  back  at  old  Rockport.  Jud- 
son,  be  good  to  your  wife.  Make  her  happy.  You  will 
be  blessed  yourself  and  you  will  make  her  a  true  good 
woman." 

There  was  a  quiet  wedding  at  the  Presbyterian  parson- 
age that  evening.  The  name  of  only  one  witness  appeared 
on  the  marriage  certificate,  the  name  in  a  bold  hand  of 
John  Baronet. 


419 


CHAPTER    XXVI 
O'MIE'S    INHERITANCE 
In  these  cases  we  still  have  judgment  here. 

— -  SHAKESPEARE. 

TRUE  to  his  word,  Tell  Mapleson's  time  followed  hard 
on  the  finishing  up  of  Judson.  My  father  did  not 
make  a  step  until  he  was  sure  of  what  the  next  one  would 
be.  That  is  why  the  supreme  court  never  reversed  his 
decisions.  When  at  last  he  had  perfected  his  plans,  Tell 
Mapleson  grew  shy  of  pushing  his  claims.  But  Tell 
was  a  shrewd  pettifogger,  and  his  was  a  different  calibre 
of  mind  from  Judson's.  It  was  not  until  my  father  was 
about  to  lay  claim  in  his  client's  behalf  to  the  valuable 
piece  of  land  containing  the  big  cottonwood  and  the 
haunted  cabin,  that  Tell  came  out  of  hiding.  This  hap- 
pened on  the  afternoon  following  the  morning  scene  with 
Judson.  And  aside  from  the  task  of  the  morning,  the  news 
of  Bud  Anderson's  untimely  death  had  come  that  day.  No- 
body could  foretell  what  next  this  winter's  campaign 
might  hold  for  the  Springvale  boys  out  on  the  far  South- 
west Plains,  and  my  father's  heart  was  heavy. 

Tell  Mapleson  was  tall  and  slight.  He  was  a  Southern 
man  by  birth,  and  he  always  retained  something  of  the 
Southern  air  in  his  manner.  Active,  nervous,  quick- 
witted, but  not  profound,  he  made  a  good  impression  gen- 
erally, especially  where  political  trickery  or  nice  turns  in 
the  law  count  for  coin.  Professionally  he  and  my  father 

420 


O'MIE'S    INHERITANCE 

were  competitors;  and  he  might  have  developed  into  a 
man  of  fine  standing,  had  he  not  kept  store,  become  post- 
master, run  for  various  offices,  and  diffused  himself  gen- 
erally, while  John  Baronet  held  steadily  to  his  calling. 

In  the  early  afternoon  Tell  courteously  informed  my 
father  that  he  desired  an  interview  with  the  idea  of  ad- 
justing differences  between  the  two.  His  request  was 
granted,  and  a  battle  royal  was  to  mark  the  second  half 
of  the  day.  John  Baronet  always  called  this  day,  which 
was  Friday,  his  black  but  good  Friday. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Mapleson,  have  a  chair." 

"  Good-afternoon,  Judge.  Pretty  stiff  winter  weather 
for  Kansas." 

So  the  two  greeted  each  other. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me  ?  "  my  father  queried. 

"  Yes,  Judge.  We  might  as  well  get  this  matter  be- 
tween us  settled  here  as  over  in  the  court-room,  eh?  " 

My  father  smiled.  "  Yes,  we  can  afford  to  do  that," 
he  said.  "  Now,  Mapleson,  you  represent  a  certain  client 
in  claiming  a  piece  of  property  known  as  the  north  half 
of  section  29,  range  14.  I  also  represent  a  claim  on  the 
same  property.  You  want  this  settled  out  of  court.  I 
have  no  reason  to  refuse  settlement  in  this  way.  State 
your  claim." 

Mapleson  adjusted  himself  in  his  chair. 

"  Judge,  the  half  section  of  land  lying  upon  the  Neosho, 
the  one  containing  among  other  appurtenances  the  big 
cottonwood  tree  and  the  stone  cabin,  was  set  down  in 
the  land  records  as  belonging  to  one  Patrick  O'Meara, 
the  man  who  took  up  the  land.  He  was  a  light-headed 
Irishman;  he  ran  off  with  a  Cheyenne  squaw,  and  not 
long  afterwards  was  killed  by  the  Comanches.  This 
property,  however,  he  gave  over  to  a  friend  of  his, 
a  Frenchman  named  Le  Claire,  connected  in  a  busi- 

421 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

ness  way  with  the  big  Choteau  Fur-trading  Company 
in  St.  Louis.  This  Frenchman  brought  his  wife  and 
child  here  to  live.  I  knew  them,  for  they  traded  at  the 
'Last  Chance*  store.  That  was  before  your  day  here, 
Baronet.  Le  Claire  did  n't  live  out  in  that  cabin  long, 
for  his  only  child  was  stolen  by  the  Kiowas,  and  his  wife, 
in  a  frenzy  of  grief  drowned  herself  in  the  Neosho.  Then 
Le  Claire  plunged  off  into  the  Plains  somewhere.  Later 
he  was  reported  killed  by  the  Kiowas.  Now  I  have  the 
evidence,  the  written  statement  signed  by  this  Irishman, 
of  the  turning  of  the  property  into  Le  Claire's  hands. 
Also  the  evidence  that  Le  Claire  was  not  killed  by  the 
Indians.  Instead,  he  was  legally  married  to  a  Kiowa 
squaw,  a  sister  of  Chief  Satanta,  who  is  now  a  prisoner 
of  war  with  General  Custer  in  the  Indian  Territory.  By 
this  union  there  was  one  child,  a  son,  Jean  Pahusca  he  is 
called.  To  this  son  this  property  now  belongs.  There 
can  be  no  question  about  it.  The  records  show  who  en- 
tered the  land.  Here  is  the  letter  sworn  to  in  my  store 
by  this  same  man,  left  by  him  to  be  given  to  Le  Claire 
when  he  should  come  on  from  St.  Louis.  The  Irishman 
was  impatient  to  join  these  Cheyennes  he  'd  met  on  a 
fur-hunting  trip  way  up  on  the  Platte,  and  with  his  affi- 
davit before  old  Judge  Fingal  (he  also  was  here  before 
you)  he  left  this  piece  of  land  to  the  Frenchman." 

Mapleson  handed  my  father  a  torn  greasy  bit  of  paper, 
duly  setting  forth  what  he  had  claimed. 

"  Now,  to  go  on,"  he  resumed.  "  This  Kiowa  marriage 
was  a  legal  one,  for  the  Frenchman  had  a  good  Catholic 
conscience.  This  marriage  was  all  right.  I  have  also 
here  the  affidavit  of  the  Rev.  J.  J.  Dodd,  former  pastor 
of  the  Methodist  Church  South  in  Springvale.  At  the 
time  of  this  marriage  Dodd,  who  was  then  stationed  out 
near  Santa  Fe,  New  Mexico,  was  on  his  way  east  with 

422 


O'MIE'S    INHERITANCE 

a  wagon  train.  Near  Pawnee  Rock  Le  Claire  with  a 
pretty  squaw  came  to  the  train  legally  equipped  and  was 
legally  married  by  Dodd.  As  a  wedding  fee  he  gave  this 
letter  of  land  grant  to  Dodd.  'Take  it/  he  said,  'I'll 
never  use  it.  Keep  it,  or  give  it  away.'  Dodd  kept  it." 

"  Until  when?  "  my  father  asked. 

Mapleson's  hands  twitched  nervously. 

"  Until  he  signed  it  over  to  me,"  he  replied.  "  I  have 
everything  secured,"  he  added,  smiling,  and  then  he 
went  on. 

"  Le  Claire  soon  got  tired  of  the  Kiowas  of  course, 
and  turned  priest,  repented  of  all  his  sins,  renounced  his 
wife  and  child,  and  all  his  worldly  goods.  It  will  be  well 
for  him  to  keep  clear  of  old  Satanta  in  his  missionary 
journeys  to  the  heathen,  however.  You  know  this  priest's 
son,  Jean  Pahusca.  He  got  into  some  sort  of  trouble 
here  during  the  war,  and  he  never  comes  here  any  more. 
He  has  assigned  to  me  all  his  right  to  this  property,  on 
a  just  consideration  and  I  am  now  ready  to  claim  my 
own,  by  force,  if  necessary,  through  the  courts.  But 
knowing  your  position,  and  that  you  also  have  a  claim  on 
the  same  property,  I  figured  it  could  be  adjusted  between 
us.  Baronet,  there  is  n't  a  ghost  of  a  show  for  anybody 
else  to  get  a  hold  on  this  property.  Every  legal  claimant 
is  dead  except  this  half-breed.  I  have  papers  for  every 
step  in  the  way  to  possession ;  and  as  a  man  whose  repu- 
tation for  justice  has  never  been  diminished,  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  will  pile  up  costs  on  your  client,  nor  deal  un- 
fairly with  him.  Have  you  any  answer  to  my  claim?  " 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  quietly  and  Father 
Le  Claire  entered.  He  was  embarrassed  by  his  evident 
intrusion  and  would  have  retreated  but  my  father  called 
him  in. 

"  You  come  at  a  most  opportune  time,  Father  Le  Claire. 

423 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Mapleson  here  has  been  proving  some  things  to  me 
through  your  name.  You  can  help  us  both." 

John  Baronet  looked  at  both  men  keenly.  Mapleson's 
face  had  a  look  of  pleasure  as  if  he  saw  not  only  the  op- 
portunity to  prove  his  cause,  but  the  chance  to  grill  the 
priest,  whose  gentle  power  had  time  and  again  led  the 
Indians  from  his  "  Last  Chance  "  saloon  on  annuity  days, 
when  the  peaceful  Osages  and  Kaws  came  up  for  their 
supplies.  The  good  Father's  face  though  serious,  even 
apprehensive,  had  an  undercurrent  of  serenity  in  its  ex- 
pression hard  to  reconcile  with  fear  of  accusation. 

"  Mr.  Mapleson,  will  you  repeat  to  Le  Claire  what  you 
have  just  told  me  and  show  him  your  affidavits  and 
records?  "  John  Baronet  asked. 

"  Certainly,"  Tell  replied,  and  glibly  he  again  set  forth 
his  basis  to  a  claim  on  the  valuable  property.  "  Now,  Le 
Claire,"  he  added,  "  Baronet  and  I  have  about  agreed  to 
arbitrate  for  ourselves.  Your  name  will  never  appear  in 
this.  The  records  are  seldom  referred  to,  and  you  are 
as  safe  with  us  as  if  you'd  never  married  that  squaw  of 
old  Satanta's  household.  We  are  all  men  here,  if  one 
is  a  priest  and  one  a  judge  and  the  other  a  land-owner." 

Le  Claire's  face  never  twitched  a  muscle.  He  turned 
his  eyes  upon  the  judge  inquiringly,  but  unabashed. 

"  Will  you  help  us  out  of  this,  Le  Claire  ?  "  my  father 
asked.  "  If  you  choose  I  will  give  you  my  claim  first." 

"  Good,"  said  Mapleson.  "  Let  him  hear  us  both,  and 
his  word  will  show  us  what  to  do." 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  my  father  began,  "by  the  merest 
chance  a  few  years  ago  I  came  upon  the  entry  of  the  land 
in  question.  It  was  entered  in  the  name  of  Patrick 
O'Meara.  Happening  to  recall  that  the  little  red-headed 
orphan  chore-boy  down  at  the  Cambridge  House  bore  the 
same  name,  I  made  some  inquiry  of  Cam  Gentry  about 

424 


O'MIE'S    INHERITANCE 

the  boy's  origin  and  found  that  he  was  an  orphan  from 
the  Osage  Mission,  and  had  been  brought  up  here  by  one 
of  the  priests  who  stopped  here  a  day  or  two  on  his  way 
from  the  Osage  to  St.  Mary's,  up  on  the  Kaw.  Cam  and 
Dollie  were  kind  to  the  child,  and  he  begged  the  priest  to 
stay  with  them.  The  good  man  consented,  and  while  the 
guardianship  remained  with  the  people  of  the  Mission, 
O'mie  grew  up  here.  It  seemed  not  impossible  that  he 
might  have  some  claim  on  this  land.  Everything  kept 
pointing  the  fact  more  and  more  clearly  to  me.  Then  I 
was  called  to  the  war." 

Tell  Mapleson's  mobile  face  clouded  up  a  bit  at  this. 

"  But  I  had  by  this  time  become  so  convinced  that  I 
called  in  Le  Claire  here  and  held  a  council  with  him.  He 
told  me  some  of  what  he  knew,  not  all,  for  reasons  he 
did  not  explain "  (my  father's  eyes  were  on  the  priest's 
face),  "but  if  it  is  necessary  he  will  tell." 

"  Now  that  sounds  like  a  threat,"  Mapleson  urged. 
Somehow,  shrewd  as  he  was,  solid  as  his  case  appeared  to 
himself,  the  man  was  growing  uncomfortable.  "  I  Ve 
known  Le  Claire's  story  for  years.  I  never  questioned 
him  once.  I  had  my  papers  from  Dodd.  Le  Claire  long 
ago  renounced  the  world.  His  life  has  proved  it.  The 
world  includes  the  undivided  north  half  of  section  29, 
range  14.  That 's  Jean  Pahusca's.  It 's  too  late  now  for 
his  father  to  try  to  get  it  away  from  him,  Baronet.  You 
know  the  courts  won't  stand  for  it."  Adroit  as  he  was, 
the  Southern  blood  was  beginning  to  show  in  Tell's 
nervous  manner  and  flashing  eyes. 

"  When  I  came  back  from  the  war,"  my  father  went  on, 
ignoring  the  interruption,  "  I  found  that  the  courthouse 
records  had  been  juggled  with.  Some  of  them,  with  some 
other  papers,  had  been  stolen.  It  happened  on  a  night 
when  for  some  reason  O'mie,  a  harmless,  uninfluential 

425 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Irish  orphan,  was  hunted  for  everywhere  in  order  to  be 
murdered.  Why?  He  stood  in  the  way  of  a  land-claim, 
and  human  life  was  cheap  that  night." 

Tell  Mapleson's  face  was  ashy  gray  with  anger;  but 
no  heed  was  given  to  him,  as  my  father  continued. 

"  It  happened  that  Jean  Pahusca,  who  took  him  out  of 
town  by  mistake  and  left  him  unconscious  and  half  dead 
on  the  bank  of  Fingal's  Creek,  was  ordered  back  by  the 
ruffians  to  find  his  body,  and  if  he  was  alive  to  finish  him 
in  any  way  the  Indian  chose.  That  same  night  the  court- 
house was  entered,  and  the  record  of  this  land-entry  was 
taken." 

"  I  have  papers  showing  O'Meara's  signing  it  over  — " 
Tell  began ;  but  my  father  waved  his  hand  and  proceeded. 

"  Briefly  put,  it  was  concealed  in  the  old  stone  cabin 
by  one  Amos  Judson.  Le  Claire  here  was  a  witness  to 
the  transaction." 

The  priest  nodded  assent. 

"  But  for  reasons  of  his  own  he  did  not  report  the  theft. 
He  did,  however,  remove  the  papers  from  their  careless 
hiding-place  in  an  old  chest  to  a  more  secure  nook  in  the 
far  corner  of  the  dark  loft.  Before  I  came  home  he  had 
left  Springvale,  and  business  matters  called  him  to  France. 
He  has  not  been  here  since,  until  last  September  when  he 
spent  a  few  days  out  at  the  cabin.  The  lead  box  had 
been  taken  from  the  loft  and  concealed  under  the  flat 
stone  that  forms  the  door  step,  possibly  by  some  movers 
who  camped  there  and  did  some  little  harm  to  the  prop- 
erty. 

"  I  have  the  box  in  the  bank  vault  now.  Le  Claire 
turned  it  over  to  me.  There  is  no  question  as  to  the 
record.  Two  points  must  be  settled,  however.  First,  did 
O'Meara  give  up  the  land  he  entered?  And  second,  is  the 

426 


O'MIE'S     INHERITANCE 

young  man  we  call  O'mie  heir  to  the  same?  Le  Claire, 
you  are  just  back  from  the  Osage  Mission?  " 

The  priest  assented. 

"  Now,  will  you  tell  us  what  you  know  of  this  case?  " 

A  sudden  fear  seized  Tell  Mapleson.  Would  this  man 
lie  now  to  please  Judge  Baronet?  Tell  was  a  good  reader 
of  human  nature,  and  he  had  thoroughly  believed  in  the 
priest  as  a  holy  man,  one  who  had  renounced  sin  and  whose 
life  was  one  long  atonement  for  a  wild,  tragic,  and  reck- 
less youth.  He  disliked  Le  Claire,  but  he  had  never 
doubted  the  priest's  sincerity.  He  could  have  given  any 
sort  of  bribe  had  he  deemed  the  Frenchman  purchasable. 

"  Just  one  word  please,  Judge,"  he  said  suavely. 
"  Look  here,  Le  Claire,  Baronet 's  a  good  lawyer,  a  rich 
man,  and  a  popular  man  with  a  fine  reputation;  but  by 
jiminy!  if  you  try  any  tricks  with  me  and  vary  one  hair 
from  the  truth,  I  '11  have  you  before  the  civil  and  church 
courts  so  quick  you  '11  think  the  Holy  Inquisition 's  no 
joke.  If  you'll  just  tell  the  truth  nobody's  going  to 
know  through  me  anything  about  your  former  wives,  nor 
how  many  half-breed  papooses  claim  you.  And  I  know 
Baronet  here  well  enough  to  know  he  never  gossips." 

Le  Claire  turned  his  dark  face  toward  Mapleson,  and 
his  piercing  black  eyes  seemed  to  look  through  the  rest- 
less lawyer  fidgeting  in  his  chair.  In  the  old  days  of  the 
"  Last  Chance  "  saloon  the  two  had  played  a  quiet  game, 
each  trying  to  outwit  the  other  —  the  priest  for  the  spir- 
itual and  financial  welfare  of  the  Indian  pensioners,  Ma- 
pleson for  his  own  financial  gain.  Yet  no  harsh  word 
had  ever  passed  between  them.  Not  even  after  Le  Claire 
had  sent  his  ultimatum  to  the  proprietor  of  the  "  Last 
Chance,"  "  Sell  Jean  Pahusca  another  drink  of  whiskey 
and  you  '11  be  removed  from  the  Indian  agency  by 

427 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

order  from  the  Secretary  of  Indian  affairs  at  Wash- 
ington." 

"  Mr.  Mapleson,  I  hope  the  truth  will  do  you  no  harm. 
It  is  the  only  thing  that  will  avail  now,  even  the  truth  I 
have  for  years  kept  back.  I  am  no  longer  a  young  man, 
and  my  severe  illness  in  October  forced  me  to  get  this 
business  settled.  Indeed,  I  in  part  helped  to  bring  mat- 
ters to  an  issue  to-day." 

Mapleson  was  disarmed  at  once  by  the  priest's  frank- 
ness. He  had  waited  long  to  even  up  scores  with  the 
Roman  Catholic  who  had  kept  many  a  dollar  from  his 
till. 

"  You  are  right,  gentlemen,  in  believing  that  I  hold  the 
key  to  this  situation.  The  Judge  has  asked  two  ques- 
tions :  '  Did  Patrick  O'Meara  ever  give  up  his  title  to  the 
land? '  and  '  Is  O'mie  his  heir,  and  therefore  the  rightful 
owner? '  Let  me  tell  you  first  what  I  know  of  O'mie. 

"  His  mother  was  a  dear  little  Irish  woman  who  had 
come,  a  stranger,  to  New  York  City  and  was  married  to 
Patrick  O'Meara  when  she  was  quite  young.  They  were 
poor,  and  after  O'mie  was  born,  his  father  decided  to  try 
the  West.  Fate  threw  him  into  the  way  of  a  Frenchman 
who  sent  him  to  St.  Louis  to  the  employment  of  a  fur- 
trading  company  in  the  upper  Missouri  River  country. 
O'Meara  knew  that  the  West  held  large  possibilities  for 
a  poor  man.  He  hoped  in  a  short  time  to  send  for  his 
wife  and  child  to  join  him." 

The  priest  paused,  and  his  brow  darkened. 

"  This  Frenchman,  although  he  was  of  noble  birth,  had 
all  the  evil  traits  and  none  of  the  good  ones  of  all  the 
generations,  and  withal  he  was  a  wild,  restless,  romantic 
dreamer  and  adventurer.  You  two  do  not  know  what 
heartlessness  means.  This  man  had  no  heart,  and  yet," 
the  holy  man's  voice  trembled,  "  his  people  loved  him  — 

428 


O'MIE'S     INHERITANCE 

will  always  love  his  memory,  for  he  could  be  irresistibly 
charming  and  affectionate  when  he  chose.  To  make  this 
painful  story  short,  he  fell  in  love  —  madly  as  only  he 
could  love  —  with  this  pretty  little  auburn-haired  Irish 
woman.  He  had  a  wife  in  France,  but  Mrs.  O'Meara 
pleased  him  for  the  time ;  and  he  was  that  kind  of  a  beast. 

"  O'Meara  came  to  Springvale,  and  finding  here  a  chance 
to  get  hold  of  a  good  claim,  he  bought  it.  He  built  a  little 
cabin  and  sent  money  to  New  York  for  his  wife  and  child 
to  join  him  here.  Mails  were  slow  in  preterritorial  days. 
The  next  letter  O'Meara  had  from  New  York  was  from 
this  Frenchman  telling  him  that  his  wife  and  child  were 
dead.  Meanwhile  the  villain  played  the  kind  friend  and 
brother  to  the  little  woman  and  helped  her  to  prepare 
for  her  journey  to  the  West.  He  had  business  himself 
in  St.  Louis.  He  would  precede  her  there  and  accompany 
her  to  her  husband's  new  home.  Oh,  he  knew  how  to 
deceive,  and  he  was  as  charming  in  manner  as  he  was 
dominant  in  spirit.  No  king  ever  walked  the  earth  with 
a  prouder  step.  You  have  seen  Jean  Pahusca  stride  down 
the  streets  of  Springvale,  and  you  know  his  regal  bearing. 
Such  was  this  Frenchman.* 

"  In  truth,"  the  priest  went  on,  "  he  had  cause  to  leave 
New  York.  Word  had  come  to  him  that  his  deserted 
French  wife  was  on  her  way  to  America.  This  French 
woman  was  quick-tempered  and  jealous,  and  her  anger 
was  something  to  flee  from. 

"  It  is  a  story  of  utter  baseness.  From  St.  Louis  to 
Springvale  Mrs.  O'Meara's  escort  was  more  like  a  lover 
than  a  friend  and  business  director  of  her  affairs.  This 
land  was  an  Osage  reservation  then.  O'Meara's  half-sec- 
tion claim  was  west  of  here.  The  home  he  built  was  that 
little  stone  cabin  near  where  the  draw  breaks  through  the 
bluff  up  the  river,  this  side  of  the  big  cottonwood." 

429 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

Le  Claire  paused  and  sat  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"  Much  as  I  have  dealt  with  all  sorts  of  people,"  he 
continued,  "  I  never  could  understand  this  Frenchman's 
nature.  Fickle  and  heartless  he  was  to  the  very  core. 
The  wild  frontier  life  attracted  him,  and  he,  who  could 
have  adorned  the  court  of  France  or  been  a  power  in  New 
York's  high  circles,  plunged  into  this  wilderness.  When 
they  reached  the  cabin  the  cause  for  his  devoted  attentions 
was  made  plain.  O'Meara  was  not  there,  had  indeed 
been  gone  for  weeks.  Letters  left  at  Springvale  directed 
to  this  Frenchman  read : 

"  *  I  'm  gone  for  good.  A  pretty  Cheyenne  squaw  away 
up  on  the  Platte  is  too  much  for  me.  Tell  Kathleen  I  'm 
never  coming  back.  So  she  is  free  to  do  what  she  wants 
to.  You  may  have  this  ground  I  have  preempted,  for 
your  trouble.  Good-bye.' 

"  This  letter,  scrawled  on  a  greasy  bit  of  paper,  was 
so  unlike  anything  Patrick  O'Meara  had  ever  said,  its 
spirit  was  so  unlike  his  genial  true-hearted  nature  that 
his  wife  might  have  doubted  it.  But  she  was  young  and 
inexperienced,  alone  and  penniless  with  her  baby  boy  in 
a  harsh  wilderness.  The  message  broke  her  heart.  And 
then  this  man  used  all  the  force  of  his  power  to  win  her. 
He  showed  her  how  helpless  she  was,  how  the  community 
here  would  look  upon  her  as  his  wife,  and  now  since  she 
was  deserted  by  her  husband,  the  father  of  her  child,  her 
only  refuge  lay  with  him,  her  true  lover. 

"  The  woman's  heart  was  broken,  but  her  fidelity  and 
honor  were  founded  on  a  rock.  She  scorned  the  villain 
before  her  and  drove  him  from  her  door.  That  night 
she  and  O'mie  were  alone  in  that  lonely  little  cabin.  The 
cruel  dominant  nature  of  the  man  was  aroused  now,  and 
he  determined  to  crush  the  spirit  of  the  only  woman  who 
had  ever  resisted  him.  Two  days  later  a  band  of  Kiowas 

430 


O'MIE'S     INHERITANCE 

was  passing  peaceably  across  the  Plains.  Here  the 
Frenchman  saw  his  chance  for  revenge  by  conniving  with 
the  Indians  to  seize  little  O'mie  playing  on  the  prairie 
beyond  the  cabin. 

"  The  women  out  in  Western  Kansas  have  had  the  same 
agony  of  soul  that  Kathleen  O'Meara  suffered  when  she 
found  her  boy  was  stolen.  In  her  despair  she  started 
after  the  tribe,  wandering  lost  and  starving  many  days 
on  the  prairie  until  a  kind-hearted  Osage  chief  found  her 
and  took  her  to  our  blessed  Mission  down  the  river.  Here 
a  strange  thing  happened.  Before  she  had  been  there  a 
week,  her  husband,  Thomas  O'Meara,  came  from  a  trap- 
ping tour  on  the  Arkansas  River.  With  him  was  a  little 
child  he  had  rescued  from  the  Kiowas  in  a  battle  at  Paw- 
nee Rock.  It  was  his  own  child,  although  he  did  not 
know  it  then.  In  this  battle  he  was  told  that  a  French- 
man had  been  killed.  The  name  was  the  same  as  that 
of  the  Frenchman  he  had  known  in  New  York.  Can  you 
picture  the  joy  of  that  reunion?  You  who  have  had  a 
wife  to  love,  a  son  to  cherish?  " 

My  father's  heart  was  full.  All  day  his  own  boy's  face 
had  been  before  him,  a  face  so  like  to  the  woman  whose 
image  he  held  evermore  in  sacred  memory. 

"  But  their  joy  was  short-lived,  for  Mrs.  O'Meara  never 
recovered  from  her  hardships  on  the  prairie;  she  died 
in  a  few  weeks.  Her  husband  was  killed  by  the  Co- 
manches  shortly  after  her  death.  His  claim  here  he  left 
to  his  son,  over  whom  the  Mission  assumed  guardianship. 
O'mie  was  transferred  to  St.  Mary's  for  some  reason,  and 
the  priest  who  started  to  take  him  there  stopped  here  to 
find  out  about  his  father's  land.  But  the  records  were 
not  available.  Fingal,  for  whom  FingaTs  Creek  was 
named,  also  known  as  Judge  Fingal,  held  possession  of 
all  the  records,  and  —  how,  I  never  knew — but  in  some 

43i 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

way  he  prevented  the  priest  from  finding  out  anything. 
Fingal  was  a  Southern  man;  he  met  a  violent  death  that 
year.  You  know  O'mie's  story  after  that."  Le  Claire 
paused,  and  a  sadness  swept  over  his  face. 

"But  that  doesn't  finish  the  Frenchman's  story,"  he 
continued  presently. 

"The  night  that  O'mie's  mother  left  her  home  in  the 
draw,  the  French  woman  who  had  journeyed  far  to  find 
her  husband  came  to  Springvale.  You  know  what  she 
found.  The  belongings  of  another  woman.  It  was  she 
who  slipped  into  the  Neosho  that  night.  The  Frenchman 
was  in  the  fight  at  Pawnee  Rock.  After  that  he  disap- 
peared. But  he  had  entered  a  formal  claim  to  the  land 
as  the  husband  of  Patrick  O'Meara's  widow,  heir  to  her 
property.  You  see  he  held  a  double  grip.  One  through 
the  letter  —  forged,  of  course  —  the  other  through  the 
claim  to  a  union  that  never  existed." 

"  Seems  to  me  you  've  a  damned  lot  to  answer  for," 
Tell  Mapleson  hissed  in  rage.  "  If  the  Church  can  make 
a  holy  man  out  of  such  a  villain,  I  'm  glad  I  'm  a  heretic." 

"  I  'm  answering  for  it,"  the  priest  said  meekly.  Only 
my  father  sat  with  face  impassive  and  calm. 

"  This  half-section  of  land  in  question  is  the  property 
of  Thomas  O'Meara,  son  and  heir  to  Patrick  O'Meara,  as 
the  records  show.  These  stolen  records  I  found  where 
Amos  Judson  had  hastily  concealed  them,  as  Judge  Bar- 
onet has  said.  I  put  them  in  the  dark  loft  for  safer 
keeping,  for  I  felt  sure  they  were  valuable.  When  I 
came  to  look  for  them,  they  had  been  moved  again.  I 
supposed  the  one  who  first  took  them  had  recovered  them, 
and  I  let  the  matter  go.  Meanwhile  I  was  called  home. 
When  I  came  here  last  Fall  I  found  matters  still  unset- 
tled, and  O'mie  still  without  his  own.  I  spent  several 
days  in  the  stone  cabin  searching  for  the  lost  papers. 

432 


O'MIE'S     INHERITANCE 

The  weather  was  bad,  and  you  know  of  my  severe  at- 
tack of  pneumonia.  But  I  found  the  box.  In  the  illness 
that  followed  I  was  kept  from  Springvale  longer  than  I 
wished.  When  I  came  again  O'mie  had  gone." 

The  priest  paused  and  sat  with  eyes  downcast,  and  a 
sorrowful  face. 

"Is  this  your  story?"  Tell  queried.  "Your  proof  of 
O'mie's  claim  you  consider  incontestable,  but  how  about 
these  affidavits  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dodd  who  married 
you  to  the  Kiowa  squaw?  How — " 

But  Le  Claire  lifted  his  hand  in  commanding  gesture. 
A  sudden  sternness  of  face  and  attitude  of  authority 
seemed  to  clothe  him  like  a  garment. 

"  Gentlemen,  there  is  another  story.  A  bitter,  pain- 
ful story.  I  have  never  told  it,  although  it  has  sometimes 
almost  driven  me  from  the  holy  sanctuary  because  of  my 
silence." 

It  was  a  deeply  impressive  moment,  for  all  three  of  the 
men  realized  the  importance  of  the  occasion. 

"  My  name,"  said  the  priest,  "  is  Pierre  Rousseau  Le 
Claire.  I  am  of  a  titled  house  of  France.  We  have  only 
the  blood  of  the  nobility  in  our  veins.  My  father  had 
two  sons,  twins  —  Pierre  the  priest,  and  Jean  the  rene- 
gade, outlawed  even  among  the  savages;  for  his  scalp 
will  hang  from  Satanta's  tepee  pole  if  the  chance  ever 
comes.  Mapleson,  here,  has  told  you  the  truth  about  his 
being  married  to  a  sister  of  Chief  Satanta.  He  also  is  the 
father  of  Jean  Pahusca.  You  have  noticed  the  boy's  like- 
ness to  me.  If  he,  being  half  Indian,  has  such  a  strong 
resemblance  to  his  family,  you  can  imagine  how  much 
alike  we  are,  my  brother  and  myself.  In  form  and  ges- 
ture, everything  —  except  —  well,  I  have  told  you  what 
his  nature  was,  and  —  you  have  known  me  for  mar«y  years. 
And  yet,  I  have  never  ceased  to  pray  for  him,  wicked  as 
28  433 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

he  is.  We  played  together  about  the  meadows  and  vine- 
clad  hill  slopes  of  old  France,  in  our  happy  boyhood.  We 
grew  up  and  loved  and  might  both  have  been  happily 
wedded  there, —  but  —  I  've  told  you  his  story.  There  is 
nothing  of  myself  that  can  interest  you.  That  letter  of 
Mapleson's,  purporting  to  be  from  Patrick  O'Meara,  is  a 
mere  forgery.  I  have  just  come  up  from  the  Mission. 
The  records  and  letters  of  O'Meara  have  all  been  kept 
there.  This  handwriting  would  not  stand,  in  court,  Ma- 
pleson.  The  land  was  O'Meara's.  It  is  now  O'mie's." 

Mapleson  sat  with  rigid  countenance.  For  almost 
fifteen  years  he  had  matched  swords  with  John  Baronet. 
He  had  felt  so  sure  of  his  game,  he  had  guarded  every 
possible  loophole  where  success  might  escape  him,  he  had 
paved  every  step  so  carefully  that  his  mind,  grown  to  the 
habitual  thought  of  winning,  was  stunned  by  the  revela- 
tion. Like  Judson  in  the  morning,  his  only  defence  lay 
in  putting  blame  on  somebody  else. 

"  You  are  the  most  accomplished  double-dealer  I  ever 
met,"  he  declared  to  the  priest.  "  You  pretend  to  follow 
a  holy  calling,  you  profess  a  love  for  your  brother,  and 
yet  you  are  trying  to  rob  his  child  of  his  property.  You 
are  against  Jean  Pahusca,  son  of  the  man  you  love  so 
much.  Is  that  the  kind  of  a  priest  you  are  ?  " 

"  The  very  kind  —  even  worse,"  Le  Claire  responded. 
"  I  went  back  to  France  before  my  aged  father  died.  My 
mother  died  of  a  broken  heart  over  Jean  long  ago.  While 
our  father  yet  lived  I  persuaded  him  to  give  all  his  estate 
—  it  was  large  —  to  the  Holy  Church.  He  did  it.  Not 
a  penny  of  it  can  ever  be  touched." 

Mapleson  caught  his  breath  like  a  drowning  man. 

"  It  spoiled  a  beautiful  lawsuit,  I  know,"  Le  Claire  con- 
tinued looking  meaningly  at  him.  "  For  that  fortune  in 
France,  put  into  the  hands  of  Jean  Pahusca's  attorneys 

434 


O'MIE'S     INHERITANCE 

here,  would  have  been  rich  plucking.     It  can  never  be.     I 
fixed  that  before  our  father's  death.     Why?  " 

"  Yes,  you  narrow,  grasping  robber  of  orphans,  why?  " 
Tell  shouted  in  his  passion. 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  I  stood  between  Jean 
Pahusca  and  this  town  until  he  was  outlawed  here. 
The  half-breed  cares  nothing  for  property  except  as  it 
can  buy  revenge  and  feed  his  appetites.  He  would  sell 
himself  for  a  drink  of  whiskey.  You  know  how  danger- 
ous he  is  when  drunk.  Every  man  in  this  town  except 
Judge  Baronet  and  myself  has  had  to  flee  from  him  at  some 
time  or  other.  Sober,  he  is  a  devil  —  half  Indian,  half 
French,  and  wholly  fiendish.  Neither  he  nor  his  father 
has  any  property.  I  used  my  influence  to  prevent  it. 
I  would  do  it  again.  Jean  Le  Claire  has  forfeited  all 
claims  to  inheritance.  So  have  I.  Among  the  Indians 
he  is  a  renegade.  I  am  only  a  missionary  priest  trying 
as  I  may  to  atone  for  my  own  sins  and  for  the  sins  of 
my  father's  son,  my  twin  brother.  That,  gentlemen,  is 
all  I  can  say." 

"  We  are  grateful  to  you,  Le  Claire,"  John  Baronet  said. 
"  Mapleson  said  before  you  began  that  your  word  would 
show  us  what  to  do.  It  has  shown  us.  It  is  now  time, 
when  some  deeds  long  past  their  due,  must  be  requited." 
He  turned  to  Tell  sitting  defiantly  there  casting  mentally 
in  every  direction  for  some  legal  hook,  some  cunning  turn, 
by  which  to  win  victory  away  from  defeat. 

"  Tell  Mapleson,  the  hour  has  come  for  us  to  settle 
more  than  a  property  claim  between  an  Irish  orphan 
and  a  half-breed  Kiowa.  And  now,  if  it  was  wise  to 
settle  the  other  matter  out  of  court,  it  will  be  a  hundred 
times  safer  to  settle  this  here  this  afternoon.  You  have 
grown  prosperous  in  Springvale.  In  so  far  as  you  have 
done  it  honestly,  I  rejoice.  You  know  yourself  that  I 

435 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

have  more  than  once  proved  my  sincerity  by  turning 
business  your  way,  that  I  could  as  easily  have  put  else- 
where." 

Tell  did  know,  and  with  something  of  Southern  polite- 
ness, he  nodded  assent. 

"  You  are  here  now  to  settle  with  me  or  to  go  before 
my  court  for  some  counts  you  must  meet.  You  have 
been  the  headpiece  for  all  the  evil-doing  that  has  wrecked 
the  welfare  of  Springvale  and  that  has  injured  reputation, 
brought  lasting  sorrow,  even  cost  the  life  of  many  citizens. 
Sooner  or  later  the  man  who  does  that  meets  his  own 
crimes  face  to  face,  and  their  ugly  powers  break  loose 
on  him." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Tell's  voice  was  suppressed, 
and  his  face  was  livid. 

"  I  mean  first :  you  with  Dick  Yeager  and  others,  later 
in  Quantrill's  band,  in  May  of  1863  planned  the  destruc- 
tion of  this  town  by  mob  violence.  The  houses  were  to 
be  burned,  every  Union  man  was  to  be  murdered  with 
his  wife  and  children,  except  such  as  the  Kiowa  and  Co- 
manche  Indians  chose  to  spare.  My  own  son  was 
singled  out  as  the  choicest  of  your  victims.  Little  O'mie, 
for  your  own  selfish  ends,  was  not  to  be  spared ;  and  Mar- 
jory Whately,  just  blooming  into  womanhood,  you  gave 
to  Jean  Pahusca  as  his  booty.  Your  plan  failed,  partly 
through  the  efforts  of  this  good  man  here,  partly  through 
the  courage  and  quick  action  of  the  boys  of  the  town, 
but  mainly  through  the  mercy  of  Omnipotent  God,  who 
sent  the  floods  to  keep  back  the  forces  of  Satan.  That 
Marjory  escaped  even  in  the  midst  of  it  all  is  due  to  the 
shrewdness  and  sacrifice  of  the  young  man  you  have 
been  trying  to  defraud  —  O'mie. 

"  In  the  midst  of  this  you  connived  with  others  to  steal 
the  records  from  the  courthouse.  You  were  a  treble 

436 


O'MIE'S     INHERITANCE 

villain,  for  you  set  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dodd  to  a  deed  you 
afterwards  held  over  him  as  a  threat  and  drove  him  from 
the  town  for  fear  of  exposure,  forcing  him  to  give  you 
the  papers  he  held  against  Jean  Le  Claire's  claims  to  the 
half-section  on  the  Neosho.  Not  that  his  going  was 
any  loss  to  Springvale.  But  Dodd  will  never  trouble 
you  again.  He  cast  his  lot  with  the  Dog  Indians  of  the 
plains,  and  one  of  them  used  him  for  a  shield  in  Custer's 
battle  with  Black  Kettle's  band  last  December.  He  had 
not  even  Indian  burial. 

"Those  deeds  against  Springvale  belong  to  the  days 
of  the  Civil  War,  but  your  record  since  proves  that  the 
man  who  planned  them  cannot  be  trusted  as  a  safe 
citizen  in  times  of  peace.  Into  your  civil  office  you  car- 
ried your  war-time  methods,  until  the  Postmaster-Gen- 
eral cannot  deal  longer  with  you.  Your  term  of  office 
expires  in  six  days.  Your  successor's  commission  is 
already  on  its  way  here.  This  much  was  accomplished 
in  the  trip  East  last  Fall."  My  father  spoke  significantly. 

"  It  was  n't  all  that  was  accomplished,  by  Heaven ! 
There 's  a  lawsuit  coming ;  there 's  a  will  that 's  to  be 
broken  that  can't  stand  when  I  get  at  it.  You  are  mighty 
good  and  fine  about  money  when  other  folks  are  getting 
it;  but  when  it's  coming  to  you,  you're  another  man." 
Tell's  voice  was  pitched  high  now. 

"  Father  Le  Claire,  let  me  tell  you  a  story.  Baronet 's 
a  smooth  rascal  and  nobody  can  find  him  out  easily.  But 
I  know  him.  He  has  called  me  a  thief.  It  takes  that 
kind  to  catch  a  thief,  maybe.  Anyhow,  back  at  Rock- 
port  the  Baronets  were  friends  of  the  Melrose  family. 
One  of  them,  Ferdinand,  was  drowned  at  sea.  He  had 
some  foolish  delusion  or  other  in  his  head,  for  he  left  a 
will  bequeathing  all  his  property  to  his  brother  James 
Melrose  during  his  lifetime.  At  his  death  all  Ferdinand's 

437 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

money  was  to  go  to  John  Baronet  in  trust  for  his  son 
Phil.  Baronet,  here,  sent  his  boy  back  East  to  school  in 
hopes  that  Phil  would  marry  Rachel  Melrose,  James's 
daughter,  and  so  get  the  fortune  of  both  Ferdinand  and 
James  Melrose.  He  went  crazy  over  the  girl;  and,  to  be 
honest,  for  Phil's  a  likable  young  fellow,  the  girl  was 
awfully  in  love  with  him.  Baronets  had  her  come  clear 
out  here  to  visit  them.  But,  you  11  excuse  me  for  say- 
ing it,  Judge,  Phil  is  a  little  fast.  He  got  tangled  up 
with  a  girl  of  shady  reputation  here,  and  Rachel  broke 
off  the  match.  Now,  last  October  the  Judge  goes  East. 
You  see,  he  's  well  fixed,  but  that  nice  little  sum  looks 
big  to  him,  and  he  's  bound  Phil  shall  have  it,  wife  or  no 
wife.  But  there 's  a  good  many  turns  in  law.  While 
Baronet  was  at  Rockport  before  I  could  get  there,  being 
detained  at  Washington  "  (my  father  smiled  a  faint  little 
gleam  of  a  smile  in  his  eyes  more  than  on  his  lip) — "  be- 
fore I  could  get  to  Rockport,  Mr.  Melrose  dies,  leaving 
his  wife  and  Rachel  alone  in  the  world.  Now,  I'm  re- 
tained here  as  their  attorney.  Tillhurst  is  going  on  to 
see  to  things  for  me.  It  's  only  a  few  thousand  that 
Baronet  is  after,  but  it 's  all  Rachel  and  her  mother  have. 
The  Melroses  were  n't  near  as  rich  as  the  people  thought. 
That  will  of  Ferdinand's  won't  hold  water,  not  even  salt 
water.  It  '11  go  to  pieces  in  court,  but  it  11  show  this 
pious  Judge,  who  calls  his  neighbors  to  account,  what 
kind  of  a  man  he  is.  The  money  's  been  tied  up  in  some 
investments  and  it  will  soon  be  released." 

Le  Claire  looked  anxiously  toward  my  father,  whose 
face  for  the  first  time  that  day  was  pale.  Rising  he 
opened  his  cabinet  of  private  papers  and  selected  a  legal 
document. 

"  This  seems  to  be  the  day  for  digging  up  records," 

438 


O'MIE'S     INHERITANCE 

he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Here  is  one  that  may  interest 
you  and  save  time  and  money.  What  Mapleson  says 
about  Ferdinand  Melrose  is  true.  We  '11  pass  by  the 
motives  I  had  in  sending  Phil  East,  and  some  other  state- 
ments. When  I  became  convinced  that  love  played  no 
part  in  Phil's  mind  toward  Rachel  Melrose,  I  met  him  in 
Topeka  in  October  and  gave  him  the  opportunity  of 
signing  a  relinquishment  to  all  claims  on  the  estate  of 
Ferdinand  Melrose.  Phil  did  n't  care  for  the  girl ;  and  as 
to  the  money  gotten  in  that  way"  (my  father  drew  him- 
self up  to  his  full  height),  "the  oxygen  of  Kansas 
breeds  a  class  of  men  out  here  who  can  make  an  honest 
fortune  in  spite  of  any  inheritance,  or  the  lack  of  it. 
I  put  my  boy  in  that  class." 

I  was  his  only  child,  and  a  father  may  be  pardoned  for 
being  proud  of  his  own. 

"  When  I  reached  Rockport,"  he  continued,  "  Mr.  Mel- 
rose was  ill.  I  hurried  to  him  with  my  message,  and  it 
may  be  his  last  hours  were  more  peaceful  because  of  my 
going.  Rachel  will  come  into  her  full  possessions  in  a 
short  time,  as  you  say.  Mapleson,  will  you  renounce  your 
retainer's  fees  in  your  interest  in  the  orphaned?" 

It  was  Tell's  bad  day,  and  he  swore  sulphureously  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  Now  I  '11  take  up  this  matter  where  I  left  oft7,"  John 
Baronet  said.  "  While  O'mie  was  taking  a  vacation  in 
the  heated  days  of  August,  he  slept  up  in  the  stone  cabin. 
Jean  Pahusca,  thief,  highwayman,  robber,  and  assassin, 
kept  his  stolen  goods  there.  Mapleson  and  his  mercan- 
tile partner  divided  the  spoils.  O'mie's  sense  of  humor 
is  strong,  and  one  night  he  played  ghost  for  Jean.  You 
know  the  redskin's  inherent  fear  of  ghosts.  It  put  Jean 
out  of  the  commission  goods  business.  No  persuasion  of 

439 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

Mapleson's  or  his  partner's  could  induce  Jean  to  go  back 
after  night  to  the  cabin  after  this  reappearance  of  the 
long  quiet  ghost  of  the  drowned  woman." 

Le  Claire  could  not  repress  a  smile. 

"  I  think  I  unconsciously  played  the  same  role  in  Sep- 
tember out  there,  frightening  a  little  man  away  one 
night.  I  was  innocent  of  any  harm  intended." 

"It  did  the  work,"  my  father  replied.  "  Jean  cut  for 
the  West  at  once,  and  joined  the  Cheyennes  for  a  time  — 
and  with  a  purpose."  Then  as  he  looked  straight  at  Tell, 
his  voice  grew  stern,  and  that  mastery  of  men  that  his 
presence  carried  made  itself  felt. 

"  Jean  has  bought  the  right  to  the  life  of  my  son.  His 
pay  for  the  hundreds  of  dollars  he  has  turned  into  the 
hands  of  this  man  was  that  Mapleson  should  defame 
my  son's  good  name  and  drive  him  from  Springvale,  and 
that  Jean  in  his  own  time  was  to  follow  and  assassinate 
him.  Mapleson  here  was  in  league  to  protect  Jean  from 
the  law  if  the  deed  should  ever  be  traced  to  his  door. 
With  these  conditions  in  addition,  Mapleson  was  to  re- 
ceive the  undivided  one-half  of  section  29,  range  14. 

"  Tell  Mapleson,  I  pass  by  the  crime  of  forging  lies 
against  the  name  of  Irving  Whately ;  I  pass  by  the  plotted 
crimes  against  this  town  in  '63;  I  ignore  the  systematic 
thievery  of  your  dealings  with  the  half-breed  Jean 
Pahusca;  but,  by  the  God  in  heaven,  my  boy  is  my  own. 
For  the  crime  of  seeking  to  lay  stain  upon  his  name,  the 
crime  of  trying  to  entangle  him  hopelessly  in  a  scandal 
and  a  legal  prosecution  with  a  sinful  erring  girl,  the 
crime  of  lending  your  hand  to  hold  the  coat  of  the  man 
who  should  stone  him  to  death, —  for  these  things,  I,  the 
father  of  Philip  Baronet,  give  you  now  twenty-four  hours 
to  leave  Springvale  and  the  State.  If  at  the  end  of  that 
time  you  are  within  the  limits  of  Kansas,  you  must 

440 


O'MIE'S    INHERITANCE 

answer  to  me  in  the  court-room  over  there;  and,  Tell 
Mapleson,  you  know  what's  before  you.  I  came  to  the 
West  to  help  build  it  up.  I  cannot  render  my  State  a 
greater  service  than  by  driving  you  from  its  borders; 
and  so  long  as  I  live  I  shall  bar  your  entrance  to  a  land 
that,  in  spite  of  all  it  has  to  bear,  grows  a  larger  crop  of 
honest  men  with  the  conquest  of  each  acre  of  the  prairie 
soil." 


441 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
SUNSET  BY  THE  SWEETWATER 

And  we  count  men  brave  who  on  land  and  wave  fear  not  to  die; 

but  still, 
Still  first  on  the  rolls  of  the  world's  great  souls  are  the  men  who 

have  feared  to  kill. 

—  EDMUND  VANCE   COOKE. 

JEAN  PAHUSCA  turned  at  the  sound  of  O'mie's  step 
on  the  stone.  The  red  sun  had  blinded  his  eyes  and 
he  could  not  see  clearly  at  first.  When  he  did  see,  O'mie's 
presence  and  the  captive  unbound  and  staggering  to  his 
feet,  surprised  the  Indian  and  held  him  a  moment  longer. 
The  confusion  at  the  change  in  war's  grim  front  passed 
quickly,  however, —  he  was  only  half  Indian, —  and  he  was 
himself  again.  He  darted  toward  us,  swift  as  a  serpent. 
Clutching  O'mie  by  the  throat  and  lifting  him  clear  of 
the  rock  shelf  the  Indian  threw  him  headlong  down  the 
side  of  the  bluff,  crashing  the  bushes  as  he  fell.  The 
knife  that  had  cut  the  cords  that  bound  me,  the  same 
knife  that  would  have  scalped  Marjie  and  taken  the  boy's 
life  in  the  Hermit's  Cave,  was  flung  from  O'mie's  hand. 
It  rang  on  the  stone  and  slid  down  in  the  darkness  below. 
Then  the  half-breed  hurled  himself  upon  me  and  we 
clinched  there  by  the  cliff's  edge  for  our  last  conflict. 

I  was  in  Jean's  land  now.  I  had  come  to  my  final  hour 
with  him.  The  Baronets  were  never  cowardly.  Was  it 
inherited  courage,  or  was  it  the  spirit  of  power  in  that 
letter,  Marjie's  message  of  love  to  me,  that  gave  me  grace 

442 


SUNSET     BY    THE    SWEETWATER 

there?  Followed  then  a  battle  royal,  brute  strength 
against  brute  strength.  All  the  long  score  of  defeated 
effort,  all  the  jealousy  and  hate  of  years,  all  the  fury  of 
final  conflict,  all  the  mad  frenzy  of  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation,  all  the  savage  lust  for  blood  (most  terrible 
in  the  human  tiger),  were  united  in  Jean.  He  combined 
a  giant's  strength  and  an  Indian's  skill  with  the  dominant 
courage  and  coolness  of  a  son  of  France.  Against  these 
things  I  put  my  strength  in  that  strange  struggle  on  the 
rocky  ledge  in  the  gathering  twilight  of  that  February 
day.  The  little  cove  on  the  bluff-side,  was  not  more  than 
fifteen  feet  across  at  its  widest  place.  The  shelf  of 
sloping  stone  made  a  fairly  even  floor.  In  this  little  re- 
treat I  had  been  bound  and  unable  to  move  for  an  hour. 
My  muscles  were  tense  at  first.  I  was  dazed,  too,  by  a 
sudden  deliverance  from  the  slow  torture  that  had  seemed 
inevitable  for  me.  The  issue,  however,  was  no  less  awful 
than  swift.  I  had  just  cause  for  wreaking  vengeance  on 
my  foeman.  Twice  he  had  attempted  to  take  O'mie's  life. 
The  boy  might  be  dead  from  the  headlong  fall  at  this 
very  minute,  for  all  I  knew.  The  clods  were  only  two 
days  old  on  Bud  Anderson's  grave.  Nothing  but  the 
skill  and  sacrifice  of  O'mie  had  saved  Marjie  from  this 
brute's  lust  six  years  before.  While  he  lived,  my  own 
life  was  never  for  one  moment  safe.  And  more  than 
everything  else  was  the  possibility  of  a  fate  for  Marjie 
too  horrible  for  me  to  dwell  upon.  All  these  things 
swept  through  my  mind  like  a  lightning  flash. 

If  ever  the  Lord  in  the  moment  of  supreme  peril  gave 
courage  and  self-control,  these  good  and  perfect  gifts 
were  mine  in  that  evening's  strife.  With  the  first  plunge 
he  had  thrown  me,  and  he  was  struggling  to  free  his 
hand  from  my  grasp  to  get  at  my  throat ;  his  knee  was  on 
my  chest. 

443 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"  You  're  in  my  land  now,"  he  hissed  in  my  ear. 

"  Yes,  but  this  is  Phil  Baronet  still,"  I  answered  with  a 
calmness  so  dominant,  it  stayed  the  struggle  for  a  mo- 
ment. I  was  playing  on  him  the  same  trick  by  which  he 
had  so  often  deceived  us, —  the  pretended  relaxation  of 
all  effort,  and  indifference  to  further  strife.  In  that  mo- 
ment's pause  I  gained  my  lost  vantage.  Quick  as  thought 
I  freed  my  other  hand,  and,  holding  still  his  murderous 
grip  from  my  throat,  I  caught  him  by  the  neck,  and 
pushing  his  head  upward,  I  gave  him  such  a  thrust  that 
his  hold  on  me  loosened  a  bit.  A  bit  only,  but  that  was 
enough,  for  when  he  tightened  it  again,  I  was  on  my 
feet  and  the  strife  was  renewed  —  renewed  with  the  fierce- 
ness of  maddened  brutes,  lashed  into  fury.  Life  for  one 
of  us  meant  death  for  the  other,  and  I  lost  every  humane 
instinct  in  that  terrible  struggle  except  the  instinct  to 
save  Marjie  first,  and  my  own  life  after  hers.  Civilization 
slips  away  in  such  a  battle,  and  the  fighter  is  only  a 
jungle  beast,  knowing  no  law  but  the  unquenchable  thirst 
for  blood.  The  hand  that  holds  this  pen  is  clean  to-day, 
clean  and  strong  and  gentle.  It  was  a  tiger's  claw  that 
night,  and  Jean's  hot  blood  following  my  terrific  blow  full 
in  his  face  only  thrilled  me  with  savage  courage.  I  hurled 
him  full  length  on  the  stone,  my  heavy  cavalry  boot  was 
on  his  neck,  and  I  would  have  stamped  the  life  out  of  him 
in  an  instant.  But  with  the  motion  of  a  serpent  he 
wriggled  himself  upward;  then,  catching  me  by  the  leg, 
he  had  me  on  one  knee,  and  his  long  arms,  like  the 
tentacles  of  a  devil-fish,  tightened  about  me.  Then  we 
rolled  together  over  and  under,  under  and  over.  His  hard 
white  teeth  were  sunk  in  my  shoulder  to  cut  my  life 
artery.  I  had  him  by  the  long  soft  hair,  my  fingers 
tangled  in  the  handfuls  I  had  torn  from  his  head.  And 
every  minute  I  was  possessed  with  a  burning  frenzy  to 


SUNSET     BY    THE    SWEETWATER 

strangle  him.  Every  desire  had  left  my  being  now,  save 
the  eagerness  to  conquer,  and  the  consciousness  of  my 
power  to  fight  until  that  end  should  come. 

We  were  at  the  cliff's  edge  now,  my  head  hanging 
over;  the  blood  was  rushing  toward  my  clogging  brain; 
the  sharp  rock's  rim,  like  a  stone  knife,  was  cutting  my 
neck.  Jean  loosened  his  teeth  from  my  shoulder,  and  his 
murderous  hand  was  on  my  throat.  In  that  supreme 
crisis  I  summoned  the  very  last  atom  of  energy,  the 
very  limit  of  physical  prowess,  the  quickness  and  cun- 
ning which  can  be  called  forth  only  by  the  conflict  with 
the  swift  approach  of  death. 

Nature  had  given  me  a  muscular  strength  far  beyond 
that  of  most  men.  And  all  my  powers  had  been  trained 
to  swift  obedience  and  almost  unlimited  endurance. 
With  this  was  a  nervous  system  that  matched  the  years 
of  a  young  man's  greatest  vigor.  Strong  drink  and  to- 
bacco had  never  had  the  chance  to  play  havoc  with  my 
steady  hand  or  to  sap  the  vitality  of  my  reserve  forces. 
Even  as  Jean  lifted  me  by  the  throat  to  crush  my  head 
backward  over  that  sharp  stone  ledge,  I  put  forth  this 
burst  of  power  in  a  fierceness  so  irresistible  that  it  hurled 
him  from  me,  and  the  struggle  was  still  unended.  We 
were  on  our  feet  again  in  a  rage  to  reach  the  finish.  I 
had  almost  ceased  to  care  to  live.  I  wanted  only  to 
choke  the  breath  from  the  creature  before  me.  I  wanted 
only  to  save  from  his  hellish  power  the  victims  who 
would  become  his  prey  if  he  were  allowed  to  live. 

Instinct  led  me  to  wrestle  with  my  assailant  across 
the  ledge  toward  the  wall  that  shut  in  about  the  sanctu- 
ary, just  as,  a  half-year  before,  on  our  "  Rockport " 
fighting  ground,  I  strove  to  drag  him  through  the  bushes 
toward  Cliff  Street,  while  he  tried  to  fling  me  off  the  pro- 
jecting rock.  And  so  we  locked  limb  and  limb  in  the 

445 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

horrible  contortion  of  this  savage  strife.  Every  muscle 
had  been  so  wrenched,  no  pain  or  wound  reported  itself 
fairly  to  the  congested  brain.  I  had  nearly  reached  the 
wall,  and  I  was  making  a  frantic  effort  to  fling  the  Indian 
against  it.  I  had  his  shoulder  almost  upon  the  rocky 
side,  and  my  grip  was  tight  about  him,  when  he  turned 
on  me  the  same  trick  I  had  played  in  the  early  part  of 
this  awful  game.  A  sudden  relaxation  threw  me  off  my 
guard.  The  blood  was  streaming  from  a  wound  on  my 
forehead,  and  I  loosed  my  hold  to  throw  back  my  long 
hair  from  my  face  and  wipe  the  trickling  drops  from  my 
eyes.  In  that  fatal  moment  my  mind  went  blank, 
whether  from  loss  of  blood  or  a  sudden  blow  from  Jean, 
I  do  not  know.  When  I  did  know  myself,  I  seemed  to 
have  fallen  through  leagues  of  space,  to  be  falling  still, 
until  a  pain,  so  sharp  that  it  was  a  blessing,  brought  me 
to  my  senses.  The  light  was  very  dim,  but  my  right 
hand  was  free.  I  aimed  one  blow  at  Jean's  shoulder,  and 
he  fell  by  the  cliff's  edge,  dragging  me  with  him,  my 
weight  on  his  body.  His  left  hand  hung  over  the  cliff- 
side.  I  should  have  finished  with  him  then,  but  that  the 
fallen  hand,  down  in  the  black  shadows,  had  closed  over 
a  knife  sticking  in  the  crevice  just  below  the  edge  of  the 
bluff  —  Jean  Le  Claire's  knife,  that  had  been  flung  from 
O'mie's  grip  as  he  fell. 

I  caught  its  gleam  as  the  half-breed  flashed  it  upward 
in  a  swift  stab  at  my  heart  and  my  breath  hung  back. 
I  leaped  from  him  in  time  to  save  my  life,  but  not  quickly 
enough  to  keep  the  villainous  thing  from  cutting  a  long 
jagged  track  across  my  thigh,  from  which  spurted  a 
crimson  flood.  There  could  be  only  one  thing  ever- 
more for  us  two.  A  redoubled  fury  seized  me,  and  then 
there  swept  up  in  me  a  power  for  which  I  cannot  account, 
unless  it  may  be  that  the  Angel  of  Life,  who  guards  all  the 

446 


SUNSET     BY     THE     SWEETWATER 

passes  of  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  sometimes  turns  back 
the  tide  for  us.  A  sudden  calmness  filled  me,  a  cool  cour- 
age contrasting  with  Jean's  frenzy,  and  I  set  my  teeth  to- 
gether with  the  grip  of  a  bulldog.  Jean  had  leaped  to  his 
feet  as  I  sprang  back  from  his  knife-thrust,  and  for  the 
first  time  since  the  fight  began  we  stood  apart  for  half  a 
minute. 

"I  may  die,  but  I'll  never  be  cut  to  death.  It  must 
be  an  equal  fight,  and  when  I  go,  Jean  Pahusca,  you  are 
going  with  me.  I  '11  have  that  knife  first  and  then  I  '11 
kill  you  with  my  own  hands,  if  my  breath  goes  out  at  the 
same  instant." 

There  must  have  been  something  terrible  in  my  voice 
for  it  was  the  voice  of  a  strong  man  going  down  to 
death,  firm  of  purpose,  and  unafraid. 

The  feel  of  the  weapon  gave  the  Indian  renewed  energy. 
He  sprang  at  me  with  a  maniac's  might.  He  was  a 
maniac  henceforth.  Three  times  we  raged  across  the 
narrow  fighting  ground.  Three  times  I  struck  that  mur- 
derous blade  aside,  but  not  without  a  loss  of  my  own 
blood  for  each  thrust,  until  at  last  by  sheer  virtue  of 
muscle  against  muscle,  I  wrenched  it  from  Jean's  hand, 
dripping  with  my  red  life-tide.  And  even  as  I  seized  it, 
it  slipped  from  me  and  fell,  this  time  to  the  ledges  far 
below.  Then  hell  broke  all  bounds  for  us,  and  what 
followed  there  in  that  shadowy  twilight,  I  care  not  to  re- 
call much  less  to  set  it  down  here. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  we  battled  there,  nor  whose 
blood  most  stained  the  stone  of  that  sanctuary,  nor  how 
many  times  I  was  underneath,  nor  how  often  on  top  of 
my  assailant.  Not  all  the  struggles  of  my  sixty  years 
combined,  and  I  have  known  many,  could  equal  that  fight 
for  life. 

There  came  a  night  in  later  time  when  for  what  seemed 

447 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

an  age  to  me,  I  matched  my  physical  power  and  endurance 
against  the  terrible  weight  of  broken  timbers  of  a  burn- 
ing bridge  that  was  crushing  out  human  lives,  in  a 
railroad  wreck.  And  every  second  of  that  eternity-long 
time,  I  faced  the  awful  menace  of  death  by  fire.  The 
memory  of  that  hour  is  a  pleasure  to  me  when  contrasted 
with  this  hand  to  hand  battle  with  a  murderer. 

It  ended  at  last  —  such  strife  is  too  costly  to  endure 
long  —  ended  with  a  form  stretched  prone  and  helpless 
and  whining  for  mercy  before  a  conqueror,  whose  life 
had  been  well-nigh  threshed  out  of  him;  but  the  fallen 
fighter  was  Jean  Pahusca,  and  the  man  who  towered  over 
him  was  Phil  Baronet. 

The  half-breed  deserved  to  die.  Life  for  him  meant 
torturing  death  to  whatever  lay  in  his  path.  It  meant 
untold  agony  for  whomsoever  his  hand  fell  upon.  And 
greater  to  me  than  these  then  was  the  murderous  conflict 
just  ended,  in  which  I  had  by  very  miracle  escaped  death 
again  and  again.  Men  do  not  fight  such  battles  to  weep 
forgiving  tears  on  one  another's  necks  when  the  end 
comes.  When  the  spirit  of  mortal  strife  possesses  a  man's 
uoul,  the  demons  of  hell  control  it.  The  moment  for  a 
long  overdue  retribution  was  come.  As  we  had  clinched 
and  torn  one  another  there  Jean's  fury  had  driven  him  to 
a  maniac's  madness.  The  blessed  heritage  of  self-control, 
my  endowment  from  my  father,  had  not  deserted  me. 
But  now  my  hand  was  on  his  throat,  my  knee  was  planted 
on  his  chest,  and  by  one  twist  I  could  end  a  record  whose 
further  writing  would  be  in  the  blood  of  his  victims. 

I  lifted  my  eyes  an  instant  to  the  western  sky,  out  of 
which  a  clear,  sweet  air  was  softly  fanning  my  hot 
blood-smeared  face.  The  sun  had  set  as  O'mie  cut 
my  bonds.  And  now  the  long  purple  twilight  of  the 
Southwest  held  the  land  in  its  soft  hues.  Only  one 

448 


SUNSET     BY    THE     SWEETWATER 

ray  of  iridescent  light  pointed  the  arch  above  me  — 
the  sun's  good-night  greeting  to  the  Plains.  Its  glory 
held  me  by  a  strange  power.  God's  mercy  was  in  that 
radiant  shaft  of  beauty  reaching  far  up  the  sky,  keeping 
me  back  from  wilful  murder. 

And  then,  because  all  pure,  true  human  love  is  typical 
of  God's  eternal  love  for  his  children,  then,  all  sud- 
denly, the  twilight  scene  slipped  from  me.  I  was  in  my 
father's  office  on  an  August  day,  and  Marjie  was  beside 
me.  The  love  light  in  her  dear  brown  eyes,  as  they 
looked  steadily  into  mine,  was  thrilling  my  soul  with 
joy.  I  felt  again  the  touch  of  her  hand  as  I  felt  it  that 
day  when  I  presented  her  to  Rachel  Melrose.  Her  eyes 
were  looking  deep  into  my  soul,  her  hand  was  in  my 
hand,  the  hand  that  in  a  moment  more  would  take  the 
life  of  a  human  being  no  longer  able  to  give  me  blow  for 
blow.  I  loosed  my  clutch  as  from  a  leprous  wound,  and 
the  Indian  gasped  again  for  mercy.  Standing  upright, 
I  spurned  the  form  grovelling  now  at  my  feet. 

Lifting  my  bloody  right  hand  high  above  me,  I 
thanked  God  I  had  conquered  in  a  greater  battle.  I  had 
won  the  victory  over  my  worser  self. 

But  I  was  too  wise  to  think  that  Jean  should  have  his 
freedom.  Stepping  to  where  the  cut  thongs  that  had 
bound  me  lay,  I  took  the  longest  pieces  and  tied  the  half- 
breed  securely. 

All  this  time  I  had  fogotten  O'mie.  Now  it  dawned 
upon  me  that  he  must  be  found.  He  might  be  alive  still. 
The  fall  must  have  been  broken  somehow  by  the  bushes. 
I  peered  over  the  edge  of  the  bluff  into  the  darkness  of  the 
valley  below. 

"O'mie!"  I  called,  "O'mie!" 

"  Present !  "  a  voice  behind  me  responded. 

I  turned  quickly.  Standing  there  in  the  dim  light, 
29  449 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

with  torn  clothing,  and  tumbled  red  hair,  and  scratched 
face  was  the  Irish  boy,  bruised,  but  not  seriously  hurt. 

"  I  climbed  down  and  round  and  up  and  got  back  as 
soon  as  I  come  too,"  he  said,  with  that  happy-go-lucky 
smile  of  his.  "Bedad!  but  you've  been  makin'  some 
history,  I  see.  Git  upy  you  miserable  cur,  and  we'll 
march  ye  down  to  General  Custer.  You  take  entirely 
too  many  liberties  wid  a  Springvale  boy  what's  knowed 
you  too  darned  long  already." 

We  lifted  Jean,  and  keeping  him  before  us  we  hurried 
him  into  the  presence  of  the  fair-haired  commander  to 
whom  we  told  our  story,  failing  not  to  report  on  the  inci- 
dent witnessed  by  O'mie  on  the  river  bank  two  nights 
before,  when  Jean  sent  his  murdered  father's  body  into 
the  waters  below  him. 

"  And  so  that  French  renegade  is  dead,  is  he,"  Custer 
mused,  never  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  ground.  He  had 
heard  us  through  without  query  or  comment,  until  now. 
"  I  knew  him  well.  First  as  a  Missionary  priest  to  the 
Osages.  He  was  a  fine  man  then,  but  the  Plains  made 
a  devil  of  him ;  and  he  deserved  what  he  got,  no  doubt. 

"  Now,  as  to  this  half-breed,  why  the  devil  did  n't  you 
kill  him  when  you  had  the  chance?  Dead  Indians  tell 
no  tales;  but  the  holy  Church  and  the  United  States 
Government  listen  to  what  the  live  ones  tell.  You  could 
have  saved  me  any  amount  of  trouble,  you  infernal  fool." 

I  stood  up  before  the  General.  There  was  as  great 
a  contrast  in  our  appearance  as  in  our  rank.  The  slight, 
dapper  little  commander  in  full  official  dress  and  perfect 
military  bearing  looked  sternly  up  at  the  huge,  rough 
private  with  his  torn,  bloody  clothing  and  lacerated 
hands.  Custer's  yellow  locks  had  just  been  neatly 
brushed.  My  own  dark  hair,  uncut  for  months,  hung  in 
a  curly  mass  thrown  back  from  my  scarred  face. 

450 


SUNSET     BY     THE     SWEETWATER 

I  gave  him  a  courteous,  military  salute.  Then  stand- 
ing up  to  my  full  height,  and  looking  steadily  down  at 
the  slender,  graceful  man  before  me,  I  said: 

"  I  may  be  a  fool,  General,  but  I  am  a  soldier,  not  a 
murderer." 

Custer  made  no  reply  for  a  time. 

He  sat  down  and,  turning  toward  Jean  Pahusca,  he 
studied  the  young  half-breed  carefully.  Then  he  said 
briefly, 

"  You  may  go  now." 

We  saluted  and  passed  from  his  tent.  Outside  we  had 
gone  only  a  few  steps,  when  the  General  overtook  us. 

"  Baronet,"  he  said,  "  you  did  right.  You  are  a  soldier, 
the  kind  that  will  yet  save  the  Plains." 

He  turned  and  entered  his  tent  again. 

"  Golly !  "  O'mie  whistled  softly.  "  It 's  me  that  thinks 
Jean  Pahusca,  son  av  whoever  his  father  may  be,  's  got 
to  the  last  and  worst  piece  av  his  journey.  I  'm  glad  you 
did  n't  kill  him,  Phil.  You  're  claner  'n  ever  in  my  eyes." 

We  strolled  away  together  in  the  soft  evening  shadows, 
silent  for  a  time. 

"  Tell  me,  O'mie,"  I  said  at  last,  "  how  you  happened 
to  find  me  up  there  two  hours  ago?  " 

"  I  was  trailin'  you  to  your  hidin'-place.  Bud,  Heaven 
bless  him,  tould  me  where  your  little  sanctuary  was,  the 
night  before  he  —  went  away."  There  were  tears  in 
O'mie's  voice,  but  soldiers  do  not  weep.  "  I  had  hard 
work  to  find  the  path.  But  it  was  better  so  maybe." 

"  You  were  just  in  time,  you  red-headed  angel.  Life 
is  sweet."  I  breathed  deeply  of  the  pleasant  air.  "  Oh, 
why  did  Bud  have  to  give  it  up,  I  wonder." 

We  sat  down  behind  the  big  bowlder  round  which  Bud, 
wounded  unto  death,  had  staggered  toward  me  only  a  few 
days  before. 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

"Talk,  O'mie;  I  can't,"  I  said,  stretching  myself  out 
at  full  length. 

"  I  was  just  in  time  to  see  Jean  spring  his  trap  on  you. 
I  waited  and  swore,  and  swore  and  waited,  for  him  to 
give  me  the  chance  to  get  betwane  you  and  the  pol- 
lutin'  pup !  It  did  n't  come  until  the  sun  took  his  face 
full  and  square,  and  I  see  my  chance  to  make  two  steps. 
He 's  so  doggoned  quick  he  'd  have  caught  me,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  blessed  gleam  in  his  eyes.  He 
wa'  n't  takin'  no  chances.  By  the  way,"  he  added  as  an 
afterthought,  "  the  General  says  we  break  camp  soon. 
Did  n't  say  it  to  me,  av  course.  Good-night  now.  Sleep 
sweet,  and  don't  get  too  far  from  your  chest  protector, — 
that 's  me."  He  smiled  good-bye  with  as  light  a  heart 
as  though  the  hours  just  past  had  been  full  of  innocent 
play  instead  of  grim  tragedy. 

February  on  the  Plains  was  slipping  into  March  when 
the  garrison  at  Fort  Sill  broke  up  for  the  final  movement. 
This  winter  campaign,  as  war  records  run,  had  been 
marked  by  only  one  engagement,  Ouster's  attack  on  the 
Cheyenne  village  on  the  Washita  River.  But  the  hurling 
of  so  large  a  force  as  the  Fort  Sill  garrison  into  the  Indian 
stronghold  in  the  depth  of  winter  carried  to  the  savage 
mind  and  spirit  a  deeper  conviction  of  our  power  than 
could  have  been  carried  by  a  score  of  victories  on  the 
green  prairies  of  summer.  For  the  Indian  stronghold, 
be  it  understood,  consisted  not  in  mountain  fastnesses, 
cunning  hiding-places,  caves  in  the  earth,  and  narrow 
passes  guarded  by  impregnable  cliffs.  This  was  no  repe- 
tition of  the  warfare  of  the  Celts  among  the  rugged  rocks 
of  Wales,  nor  of  the  Greeks  at  Thermopylae,  nor  of  the 
Swiss  on  Alpine  footpaths.  This  savage  stronghold  was 
an  open,  desolate,  boundless  plain,  fortified  by  distances 

452 


SUNSET     BY     THE     SWEETWATER 

and  equipped  with  the  slow  sure  weapons  of  starvation. 
That  Government  was  a  terror  to  the  Indian  mind  whose 
soldiers  dared  to  risk  its  perils  and  occupy  the  land  at 
this  season  of  the  year.  The  withered  grasses;  the  lack 
of  fuel;  the  absence  of  game;  the  salty  creeks,  which 
mock  at  thirst;  the  dreary  waves  of  wilderness  sand;  the 
barren  earth  under  a  wide  bleak  sky;  the  never-ending 
stretch  of  unbroken  plain  swept  by  the  fierce  winter  bliz- 
zard, whose  furious  blast  was  followed  by  a  bitter  per- 
ishing weight  of  cold, —  these  were  the  foes  we  had  had 
to  fight  in  that  winter  campaign.  Our  cavalry  horses 
had  fallen  before  them,  dying  on  the  way.  Only  a  few 
of  those  that  reached  Fort  Sill  had  had  the  strength  to 
survive  even  with  food  and  care.  John  Mac  prophesied 
truly  when  he  declared  to  us  that  our  homesick  horses 
would  never  cross  the  Arkansas  River  again.  Not  one  of 
them  ever  came  back,  and  we  who  had  gone  out  mounted 
now  found  ourselves  a  helpless  infantry. 

Slowly  the  tribes  had  come  to  Ouster's  terms.  When 
delay  and  cunning  device  were  no  longer  of  any  avail  they 
submitted  —  all  except  the  Cheyennes,  who  had  escaped 
to  the  Southwest. 

Spring  was  coming,  and  the  Indians  and  their  ponies 
could  live  in  comfort  then.  It  was  only  in  the  winter  that 
United  States  rations  and  tents  were  vital.  With  the 
summer  they  could  scorn  the  white  man's  help,  and  more : 
they  could  raid  again  the  white  man's  land,  seize  his  prop- 
erty, burn  his  home,  and  brain  him  with  their  cruel  toma- 
hawks; while  as  to  his  wife  and  children,  oh,  the  very 
fiends  of  hell  could  not  devise  an  equal  to  their  scheme 
of  life  for  them.  The  escape  of  the  Cheyennes  from  Cus- 
ter's  grasp  was  but  an  earnest  of  what  Kiowa,  Arapahoe 
and  Comanche  could  do  later.  These  Cheyennes  were 
setting  an  example  worthy  of  their  emulation.  Not  quite, 

453 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

to  the  Cheyenne's  lordly  spirit,  not  quite  had  the  cavalry 
conquered  the  Plains.  And  now  the  Cheyenne  could  well 
gloat  over  the  failure  of  the  army  after  all  it  had  endured ; 
for  spring  was  not  very  far  away,  the  barren  Staked  Plains, 
in  which  the  soldier  could  but  perish,  were  between  them 
and  the  arm  of  the  Government,  and  our  cavalrymen  were 
now  mere  undisciplined  foot-soldiers.  It  was  to  subdue 
this  very  spirit,  to  strike  the  one  most  effectual  blow,  the 
conquest  of  the  Cheyennes,  that  the  last  act  of  that  winter 
campaign  was  undertaken.  This,  and  one  other  purpose. 
I  had  been  taught  in  childhood  under  Christian  culture 
that  it  is  for  the  welfare  of  the  home  the  Government 
exists.  Bred  in  me  through  many  generations  of  an- 
cestry was  the  high  ideal  of  a  man's  divine  right  to  pro- 
tect his  roof-tree  and  to  foster  under  it  those  virtues  that 
are  built  into  the  nation's  power  and  honor.  I  had  had 
thrust  upon  me  in  the  day  of  my  young  untried  strength 
a  heavy  sense  of  responsibility.  I  had  known  the  crush- 
ing anguish  of  feeling  that  one  I  loved  had  fallen  a  prey 
to  a  savage  foe  before  whose  mastery  death  is  a  joy.  I 
was  now  to  learn  the  truth  of  all  the  teaching  along  the 
way.  I  was  to  see  in  the  days  of  that  late  winter  the 
finest  element  of  power  the  American  flag  can  sym- 
bolize—  the  value  set  upon  the  American  home,  over 
which  it  is  a  token  of  protection.  This,  then,  was  that 
other  purpose  of  this  campaign  —  the  rescue  of  two  cap- 
tive women,  seized  and  dragged  away  on  that  afternoon 
when  Bud  and  O'mie  and  I  leaned  against  the  south  wall 
ot  old  Fort  Hays  in  the  October  sunshine  and  talked  of 
the  hazard  of  Plains  warfare.  But  of  this  other  purpose 
the  privates  knew  nothing  at  all.  The  Indian  tribes,  now 
full  of  fair  promises,  were  allowed  to  take  up  their  abode 
on  their  reservations  without  further  guarding.  General 
Custer,  with  the  Seventh  United  States  Regiment,  and 

454 


SUNSET     BY    THE     SWEETWATER 

Colonel  Horace  L.  Moore,  in  full  command  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Kansas  Cavalry,  were  directed  to  reach  the  Chey- 
enne tribe  and  reduce  it  to  submission. 

A  thousand  men  followed  the  twenty-one  buglers  on 
their  handsome  horses,  in  military  order,  down  Kansas 
Avenue  in  Topeka,  on  that  November  day  in  1868,  when 
the  Kansas  volunteers  began  this  campaign.  Four 
months  later,  on  a  day  in  early  March,  Custer's  regiment 
with  the  Nineteenth,  now  dismounted  cavalry,  filed  out 
of  Fort  Sill  and  set  their  faces  resolutely  to  the  westward. 
Infantry  marching  was  new  business  for  the  Kansas  men, 
but  they  bent  to  their  work  like  true  soldiers.  After  four 
days  a  division  came,  and  volunteers  from  both  regiments 
were  chosen  to  continue  the  movement.  The  remainder, 
for  lack  of  marching  strength,  was  sent  up  on  the  Washita 
River  to  await  our  return  in  a  camp  established  up  there 
under  Colonel  Henry  Inman. 

Reed,  one  of  my  Topeka  comrades,  was  of  those  who 
could  not  go  farther.  O'mie  was  not  considered  equal  to 
the  task.  I  fell  into  Reed's  place  with  Hadley  and  John 
Mac  and  Pete,  when  we  started  out  at  last  to  conquer  the 
Cheyennes,  who  were  slipping  ever  away  from  us  some- 
where beyond  the  horizon's  rim.  The  days  that  followed, 
finishing  up  that  winter  campaign,  bear  a  record  of  en- 
durance unsurpassed  in  the  annals  of  American  warfare. 

I  have  read  the  fascinating  story  of  Coronado  and  his 
three  hundred  Spanish  knights  in  their  long  weary  march 
over  a  silent  desolate  level  waste  day  after  day,  pushing 
grimly  to  the  northward  in  their  fruitless  search  for  gold. 
What  did  this  band  of  a  thousand  weary  men  go  seeking 
as  they  took  the  reverse  route  of  Coronado's  to  the  South- 
west over  these  ceaslessly  crawling  sands?  Not  the  dis- 
coverer's fame,  not  the  gold-seeker's  treasure  led  them 
forth  through  gray  interminable  reaches  of  desolation. 

455 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

They  were  going  now  to  put  the  indelible  mark  of  con- 
quest by  a  civilized  Government,  on  a  crafty  and  danger- 
ous foe,  to  plough  a  fire-guard  of  safety  about  the  frontier 
homes. 

Small  heed  we  gave  to  this  history-making,  it  is  true, 
as  we  pressed  silently  onward  through  those  dreary  late 
winter  days.  It  was  a  soldier's  task  we  had  accepted, 
and  we  were  following  the  flag.  And  in  spite  of  the  sins 
committed  in  its  name,  of  the  evil  deeds  protected  by  its 
power,  wherever  it  unfurls  its  radiant  waves  of  light  "  the 
breath  of  heaven  smells  wooingly  " ;  gentle  peace,  and  rich 
prosperity,  and  holy  love  abide  ever  more  under  its  caress- 
ing shadow. 

We  were  prepared  with  rations  for  a  five  days'  expe- 
dition only.  But  weary,  ragged,  barefoot,  hungry,  sleep- 
less, we  pressed  on  through  twenty-five  days,  following  a 
trail  sometimes  dim,  sometimes  clearly  written,  through  a 
region  the  Indians  never  dreamed  we  could  cross  and  live. 
The  nights  chilled  our  famishing  bodies.  The  short  hours 
of  broken  rest  led  only  to  another  day  of  moving  on. 
There  were  no  breakfasts  to  hinder  our  early  starting. 
The  meagre  bit  of  mule  meat  doled  out  sparingly  when 
there  was  enough  of  this  luxury  to  be  given  out,  eaten  now 
without  salt,  was  our  only  food.  Our  clothing  tattered 
with  wear  and  tear,  hung  on  our  gaunt  frames.  Our  lips 
did  not  close  over  our  teeth ;  our  eyes  above  hollow  cheeks 
stared  out  like  the  eyes  of  dead  men.  The  bloom  of  health 
had  turned  to  a  sickly  yellow  hue;  but  we  were  all  alike, 
and  nobody  noted  the  change. 

As  we  passed  from  one  deserted  camp  to  another,  it 
began  to  seem  a  will-o'-the-wisp  business,  an  elusive 
dream,  a  long  fruitless  chasing  after  what  would  escape 
and  leave  us  to  perish  at  last  in  this  desert.  But  the 
slender  yellow-haired  man  at  the  head  of  the  column  had 

456 


SUNSET     BY    THE     SWEETWATER 

an  indomitable  spirit,  and  an  endurance  equalled  only  by 
his  courage  and  his  military  cunning.  Under  him  was 
the  equally  indomitable  Kansas  Colonel,  Horace  L.  Moore, 
tried  and  trained  in  Plains  warfare.  Behind  them  strag- 
gled a  thousand  soldiers.  And  still  the  March  days 
dragged  on. 

Then  the  trails  began  to  tell  us  that  the  Indians  were 
gathering  in  larger  groups  and  the  command  was  urged 
forward  with  more  persistent  purpose.  We  slept  at  night 
without  covering  under  the  open  sky.  We  hardly  dared 
to  light  fires.  We  had  nothing  to  cook,  and  a  fire  would 
reveal  our  whereabouts  to  the  Indians  we  were  pursuing. 
A  thousand  soldiers  is  a  large  number;  but  even  a  thou- 
sand men,  starving  day  after  day,  taxing  nerve  and  muscle, 
with  all  the  reserve  force  of  the  body  feeding  on  its  own 
unfed  store  of  energy;  a  thousand  men  destitute  of  sup- 
plies, cut  off  by  leagues  of  desert  sands  from  any  base 
of  reinforcement,  might  put  up  only  a  weak  defence 
against  the  hundreds  of  savages  in  their  own  habitat.  It 
was  to  prevent  another  Arickaree  that  Ouster's  forces  kept 
step  in  straggling  lines  when  rations  had  become  only 
a  taunting  mockery  of  the  memory. 

The  map  of  that  campaign  is  kept  in  the  archives  of  war 
and  its  official  tale  is  all  told  there,  told  as  the  commander 
saw  it.  I  can  tell  it  here  only  as  a  private  down  in  the 
ranks. 

In  the  middle  of  a  March  afternoon,  as  we  were  silently 
swinging  forward  over  the  level  Plains,  a  low  range  of 
hills  loomed  up.  Beyond  them  lay  the  valley  of  the 
Sweetwater,  a  tributary  of  the  Canadian  River.  Here, 
secure  in  its  tepees,  was  the  Cheyenne  village,  its  in- 
habitants never  dreaming  of  the  white  man's  patience 
and  endurance.  Fifteen  hundred  strong  it  numbered, 
arrogant,  cunning,  murderous.  The  sudden  appearance 

457 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

of  our  army  of  skeleton  men  was  not  without  its  effect 
on  the  savage  mind.  Men  who  had  crossed  the  Staked 
Plains  in  this  winter  time,  men  who  looked  like  death 
already,  such  men  might  be  hard  to  kill.  But  lying  and 
trickery  still  availed. 

There  was  only  one  mind  in  the  file  that  day.  We  had 
come  so  far,  we  had  suffered  such  horrors  on  the  way, 
these  men  had  been  guilty  of  such  atrocious  crimes,  we 
longed  fiercely  now  to  annihilate  this  band  of  wretches 
in  punishment  due  for  all  it  had  cost  the  nation.  I  thought 
of  the  young  mother  and  her  baby  boy  on  the  frozen 
earth  between  the  drifts  of  snow  about  Satanta's  tepee  on 
the  banks  of  the  Washita,  as  Bud  and  I  found  her  on 
the  December  day  when  we  searched  over  Ouster's  battle 
field.  I  pictured  the  still  forms  lying  on  their  blankets, 
and  the  long  line  of  soldiers  passing  reverently  by,  to  see 
if  by  chance  she  might  be  known  to  any  of  us  —  this 
woman,  murdered  in  the  very  hour  of  her  release;  and 
I  gripped  my  arms  in  a  frenzy.  Oh,  Satan  takes  fast  hold 
on  the  heart  of  a  man  in  such  a  time,  and  the  Christ  dying 
on  the  cross  up  on  Calvary,  praying  "  Father  forgive  them 
for  they  know  not  what  they  do,"  seems  only  a  fireside 
story  of  unreal  things. 

In  the  midst  of  this  opportunity  for  vengeance  just,  and 
long  overdue,  comes  Custer's  lieutenant  with  military 
courtesy  to  Colonel  Moore,  and  delivers  the  message, 
"  The  General  sends  his  compliments,  with  the  instructions 
not  to  fire  on  the  Indians." 

Courtesy!  Compliments!  Refrain  from  any  rudeness 
to  the  wards  of  the  Government!  I  was  nearly  twenty- 
two  and  I  knew  more  than  Custer  and  Sheridan  and  even 
President  Grant  himself  just  then.  I  had  a  sense  of  obedi- 
ence. John  Baronet  put  that  into  me  back  in  Springvale 
years  ago.  Also  I  had  extravagant  notions  of  military 

458 


SUNSET     BY     THE     SWEETWATER 

discipline  and  honor.  But  for  one  brief  moment  I  was 
the  most  lawless  mutineer,  the  rankest  anarchist  that  ever 
thirsted  for  human  gore  to  satisfy  a  wrong.  Nor  was 
I  alone.  Beside  me  were  those  stanch  fellows,  Pete  and 
John  Mac,  and  Hadley.  And  beyond  was  the  whole  line 
of  Kansas  men  with  a  cause  of  their  own  here.  Before 
my  fury  left  me,  however,  we  were  all  about  face,  and 
getting  up  the  valley  to  a  camping-place. 

I  might  have  saved  the  strength  the  passion  of  fury 
costs.  Custer  knew  his  business  and  mine  also.  Down 
in  that  Cheyenne  village,  closely  guarded,  were  two  cap- 
tive women,  the  women  of  my  boyhood  dream,  maybe. 
The  same  two  women  who  had  been  carried  from  their 
homes  up  in  the  Solomon  River  country  in  the  early  Fall. 
What  they  had  endured  in  these  months  of  captivity  even 
the  war  records  that  set  down  plain  things  do  not  deem 
fit  to  enter.  One  shot  from  our  rifles  that  day  on  the 
Sweetwater  would  have  meant  for  them  the  same  fate 
that  befell  the  sacrifice  on  the  Washita,  the  dead  woman 
on  the  deserted  battle  field.  It  was  to  save  these  two, 
then,  that  we  had  kept  step  heavily  across  the  cold 
starved  Plains.  For  two  women  we  had  marched  and 
suffered  on  day  after  day.  Who  shall  say,  at  the  last 
analysis,  that  this  young  queen  of  nations,  ruling  a  beau- 
tiful land  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  sets  no  value  on 
the  homes  of  its  people,  nor  holds  as  priceless  the  life  and 
safety  even  of  two  unknown  women. 

Very  adroitly  General  Custer  visited,  and  exchanged 
compliments,  and  parleyed  and  waited,  playing  his  game 
faultlessly  till  even  the  quick-witted  Cheyennes  were 
caught  by  it.  When  the  precise  moment  came  the  shrewd 
commander  seized  the  chief  men  of  the  village  and  gave 
his  ultimatum  —  a  life  for  a  life.  The  two  white  women 
safe  from  harm  must  be  brought  to  him  or  these  mighty 

459 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE     PRAIRIE 

men  must  become  degraded  captives.  Then  followed  an 
Indian  hurricane  of  wrath  and  prayers  and  trickery.  It 
availed  nothing  except  to  prolong  the  hours,  and  hunger 
and  cold  filled  another  night  in  our  desolate  camp. 

Day  brought  a  renewal  of  demand,  a  renewal  of  excuse 
and  delay  and  an  attempt  to  outwit  by  promises.  But 
a  second  command  was  more  telling.  The  yellow-haired 
general's  word  now  went  forth :  "  If  by  sunset  to-mor- 
row night  these  two  women  are  not  returned  to  my  pos- 
session, these  chiefs  will  hang." 

So  Custer  said,  and  the  grim  selection  of  the  gallows 
and  the  preparation  for  fulfilment  of  his  threat  went 
swiftly  forward.  The  chiefs  were  terror-stricken,  and 
anxious  messages  were  sent  to  their  people.  Meanwhile 
the  Cheyenne  forces  were  moving  farther  and  farther 
away.  The  squaws  and  children  were  being  taken  to  a 
safe  distance,  and  a  quick  flight  was  in  preparation.  So 
another  night  of  hunger  and  waiting  fell  upon  us.  Then 
came  the  day  of  my  dream  long  ago.  The  same  people 
I  knew  first  on  the  night  after  Jean  Pahusca's  attempt 
on  Marjie's  life,  when  we  were  hunting  our  cows  out  on 
the  West  Prairie,  came  now  in  reality  before  me. 

The  Sweetwater  Valley  spread  out  under  the  late  sun- 
shine of  a  March  day  was  rimmed  about  by  low  hills. 
Beyond  these,  again,  were  the  Plains,  the  same  monotony 
of  earth  beneath  and  sky  above,  the  two  meeting  away 
and  away  in  an  amethyst  fold  of  mist  around  the  world's 
far  bound.  There  were  touches  of  green  in  the  brown 
valley,  but  the  hill  slopes  and  all  the  spread  of  land  about 
them  were  gray  and  splotched  and  dull  against  a  blue- 
gray  sickly  sky.  The  hours  went  by  slowly  to  each  anx- 
ious soldier,  for  endurance  was  almost  at  its  limit.  More 
heavily  still  they  must  have  dragged  for  the  man  on  whom 
the  burden  of  command  rested.  High  noon,  and  then 

460 


SUNSET     BY    THE    SWEETWATER 

the  afternoon  interminably  long  and  dull,  and  by  and  by 
came  the  sunset  on  the  Sweetwater  Valley,  and  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth  were  revealed  to  the  sons  of  men. 
Like  a  chariot  of  fire,  the  great  sun  rolled  in  all  its  gor- 
geous beauty  down  the  west.  The  eastern  sky  grew  ra- 
diant with  a  pink  splendor,  and  every  brown  and  mottled 
stretch  of  distant  landscape  was  touched  with  golden 
light  or  deepened  into  richest  purple,  or  set  with  a  roseate 
bound  of  flame.  Somewhere  far  away,  a  feathery  gray 
mist  hung  like  a  silvery  veil  toning  down  the  earth  from 
the  noonday  glare  to  the  sunset  glory.  Down  in  the  very 
middle  of  all  this  was  a  band  of  a  thousand  men;  their 
faded  clothing,  their  uncertain  step,  their  knotted  hands, 
and  their  great  hungry  eyes  told  the  price  that  had  been 
paid  for  the  drama  this  sunset  hour  was  to  bring.  Slowly 
the  moments  passed  as  when  in  our  little  sanctuary  above 
the  pleasant  parks  at  Fort  Sill  I  had  watched  the  light 
measured  out.  And  then  the  low  hills  began  to  rise  up 
and  shut  out  the  crimson  west  as  twilight  crept  toward 
the  Sweetwater  Valley. 

Suddenly,  for  there  had  been  nothing  there  a  moment 
before,  all  suddenly,  an  Indian  scout  was  outlined  on  the 
top  of  the  low  bluff  nearest  us.  Motionless  he  sat  on  his 
pony  a  moment,  then  he  waved  a  signal  to  the  farther 
height  beyond  him.  A  second  pony  and  a  second  Indian 
scout  appeared.  Another  signal  and  then  came  a  third  In- 
dian on  a  third  pony  farther  away.  Each  Indian  seemed 
to  call  out  another  until  a  line  of  them  had  been  signalled 
from  the  purple  mist,  out  of  which  they  appeared  to  be 
created.  Last  of  all  and  farthest  away,  was  a  pony  on 
which  two  figures  were  faintly  outlined.  Down  in  the 
valley  we  waited,  all  eyes  looking  toward  the  hills  as 
these  two  drew  nearer.  Up  in  a  group  on  the  bluff  be- 
yond the  valley  the  Indians  halted.  The  two  riders  of 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

the  pony  slipped  to  the  ground.  With  their  arms  about 
each  other,  in  close  embrace,  they  came  slowly  toward  us, 
the  two  captive  women  for  whom  we  waited.  It  was  a 
tragic  scene,  such  as  our  history  has  rarely  known,  watched 
by  a  thousand  men,  mute  and  motionless,  under  its  spell. 
Even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  four  decades,  the 
picture  is  as  vivid  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  that  I  stood 
on  the  Texas  Plains  a  soldier  of  twenty-two  years,  feeling 
my  heart  throbs  quicken  as  that  sunset  scene  is  enacted 
before  me. 

We  had  thought  ourselves  the  victims  of  a  hard  fate  in 
that  winter  of  terrible  suffering;  but  these  two  women, 
Kansas  girls,  no  older  than  Marjie,  home-loving,  sheltered, 
womanly,  a  maiden  and  a  bride  of  only  a  few  months  — 
shall  I  ever  forget  them  as  they  walked  into  my  life  on 
that  March  day  in  the  sunset  hour  by  the  Sweetwater? 
Their  meagre  clothing  was  of  thin  flour  sacks  with  buck- 
skin moccasins  and  leggins.  Their  hair  hung  in  braids 
Indian  fashion.  Their  haggard  faces  and  sad  eyes  told 
only  the  beginning  of  their  story.  They  were  coming  now 
to  freedom  and  protection.  The  shadow  of  Old  Glory 
would  be  on  them  in  a  moment;  a  moment,  and  the  life 
of  an  Indian  captive  would  be  but  a  horror-seared  memory. 

Then  it  was  that  Custer  did  a  graceful  thing.  The 
subjection  of  the  Cheyennes  could  have  been  accomplished 
by  soldiery  from  Connecticut  or  South  Carolina,  but  it 
was  for  the  rescue  of  these  two,  for  the  protection  of 
Kansas  homes,  that  the  Nineteenth  Kansas  Cavalry  had 
volunteered.  Stepping  to  our  commander,  Colonel  Moore, 
Custer  asked  that  the  Kansas  man  should  go  forward  to 
meet  the  captives.  With  a  courtesy  a  queen  might  have 
coveted  the  Colonel  received  them  —  two  half-naked, 
wretched,  fate-buffeted  women. 

The  officers  nearest  wrapped  their  great  coats  about 

462 


SUNSET     BY    THE    SWEETWATER 

them.  Then,  as  the  two,  escorted  by  Colonel  Moore  and 
his  officers  next  of  rank,  moved  forward  toward  General 
Custer,  who  was  standing  apart  on  a  little  knoll  waiting 
to  receive  them,  a  thousand  men  watching  breathless 
with  uncovered  heads  the  while,  the  setting  sun  sent 
down  athwart  the  valley  its  last  rich  rays  of  glory,  the 
motionless  air  was  full  of  an  opalescent  beauty;  while 
softly,  sweetly,  like  dream  music  never  heard  before  in 
that  lonely  land  of  silence,  the  splendid  Seventh  Cavalry 
band  was  playing  "  Home  Sweet  Home." 


463 


CHAPTER    XXVII 
THE     HERITAGE 

It  is  morning  here  in  Kansas,  and  the  breakfast  bell  is  rung! 
We  are  not  yet  fairly  started  on  the  work  we  mean  to  do; 
We  have  all  the  day  before  us,  and  the  morning  is  but  young, 
And  there  's  hope  in  every  zephyr,  and  the  skies  are  bright  and 
blue. 

—  WALT  MASON. 

IT  was  over  at  last,  the  long  painful  marching;  the 
fight  with  the  winter's  blizzard,  the  struggle  with 
starvation,  the  sunrise  and  sunset  and  starlight  on  wil- 
derness ways  —  all  ended  after  a  while.  Of  the  three 
boys  who  had  gone  out  from  Springvale  and  joined  in  the 
sacrifice  for  the  frontier,  Bud  sleeps  in  that  pleasant 
country  at  Fort  Sill.  The  summer  breezes  ripple  the 
grasses  on  his  grave,  the  sunbeams  caress  it  lovingly  and 
the  winter  snows  cover  it  softly  over  —  the  quiet  grave 
he  had  wished  for  and  found  all  too  soon.  Dear  Bud, 
"  not  changed,  but  glorified,"  he  holds  his  place  in  all  our 
hearts.  For  O'mie,  the  winter  campaign  was  the  closing 
act  of  a  comic  tragedy,  and  I  can  never  think  sadly  of 
the  brave-hearted  happy  Irishman.  He  was  too  full  of  the 
sunny  joy  of  existence,  his  heart  beat  with  too  much  of 
good-will  toward  men,  to  be  remembered  otherwise  than 
as  a  bright-faced,  sweet-spirited  boy  whose  span  of  years 
was  short.  How  he  ever  endured  the  hardships  and 
reached  Springvale  again  is  a  miracle,  and  I  wonder  even 
now,  how,  waiting  patiently  for  the  inevitable,  he  could 

464 


THE    HERITAGE 

go  peacefully  through  the  hours,  making  us  forget  every- 
thing but  his  cheery  laugh,  his  affectionate  appreciation 
of  the  good  things  of  the  world,  and  his  childlike  trust  in 
the  Saviour  of  men. 

His  will  was  a  simple  thing,  containing  the  bequest  of 
all  his  possessions,  including  the  half-section  of  land  so 
long  in  litigation,  and  the  requests  regarding  his  funeral. 
The  latter  had  three  wishes:  that  Marjie  would  sing 
"  Abide  With  Me "  at  the  burial  service,  that  he  might 
lie  near  to  John  Baronet's  last  resting-place  in  the  Spring- 
vale  cemetery,  and  that  Dave  and  Bill  Mead,  and  the  three 
Andersons,  with  myself  would  be  his  pall  bearers.  Dave 
was  on  the  Pacific  slope  then,  and  O'mie  himself  had 
helped  to  bear  Bud  to  his  final  earthly  home.  One  of  the 
Red  Range  boys  and  Jim  Conlow  filled  these  vacant 
places.  Reverently,  as  for  one  of  the  town's  distin- 
guished men,  there  walked  beside  us  Father  Le  Claire 
and  Judge  Baronet,  Cris  Mead  and  Henry  Anderson, 
father  of  the  Anderson  boys,  Cam  Gentry  and  Dever.  Be- 
hind these  came  the  whole  of  Springvale.  It  was  May 
time,  a  year  after  our  Southwest  campaign,  and  the  wild 
flowers  of  the  prairie  lined  his  grave  and  wreaths  of  the 
pink  blossoms  that  grow  out  in  the  West  Draw  were 
twined  about  his  casket.  He  had  no  next  of  kin,  there 
were  no  especial  mourners.  His  battle  was  ended  and  we 
could  not  grieve  for  his  abundant  entrance  into  eternal 
peace. 

Three  of  us  had  gone  out  with  the  Nineteenth  Kansas 
Cavalry,  and  I  am  the  third.  While  we  were  creeping 
back  to  life  at  Camp  Inman  on  the  Washita  after  that 
well-nigh  fatal  expedition  across  the  Staked  Plains  to 
the  Sweetwater,  I  saw  much  of  Hard  Rope,  chief  man  of 
the  Osage  scouts.  I  had  been  accustomed  to  the  Osages 
all  my  years  in  Kansas.  Neither  this  tribe,  nor  our  nearer 
30  465 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

neighbors,  the  Kaws,  had  ever  given  Springvale  any  seri- 
ous concern.  Sober,  they  were  law-abiding  enough,  and 
drunk,  they  were  no  more  dangerous  than  any  drunken 
white  man.  Bitter  as  my  experience  with  the  Indian 
has  been,  I  have  always  respected  the  loyal  Osage.  But 
I  never  sought  one  of  this  or  any  other  Indian  tribe  for 
the  sake  of  his  company.  Race  prejudice  in  me  is  still 
strong,  even  when  I  give  admiration  and  justice  free  rein. 
Indians  had  frequent  business  in  the  Baronet  law  office 
in  my  earlier  years,  and  after  I  was  associated  with  my 
father  there  was  much  that  brought  them  to  us.  Possi- 
bly the  fact  that  I  did  not  dislike  the  Osages  is  the  reason 
I  hardly  gave  them  a  thought  at  Fort  Sill.  It  was  not 
until  afterwards  that  I  recalled  how  often  I  had  found 
the  Osage  scouts  there  crossing  my  path  unexpectedly. 
On  the  day  before  we  broke  camp  at  the  Fort,  Hard  Rope 
came  to  my  tent  and  sat  down  beside  the  door.  I  did 
not  notice  him  until  he  said  slowly: 

"  Baronet?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied. 

"Tobacco?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  Hard  Rope,"  I  answered,  "  I  have  every  other 
mark  of  a  great  man  except  this.  I  don't  smoke." 

"  I  want  tobacco,"  he  continued. 

What  made  me  accommodating  just  then  I  do  not  know, 
but  I  suddenly  remembered  some  tobacco  that  Reed  had 
left  in  my  tent. 

"  Hard  Rope,"  I  said,  "  here  is  some  tobacco.  I  forgot 
I  had  it,  because  I  don't  care  for  it.  Take  it  all." 

The  scout  seized  it  with  as  much  gratitude  as  an  Indian 
shows,  but  he  did  not  go  away  at  once. 

"  Something  else  now  ?  "  I  questioned  not  unkindly. 

"You  Judge  Baronet's  son?" 

I  nodded  and  smiled. 


THE    HERITAGE 

He  came  very  close  to  me,  putting  both  hands  on  my 
shoulders,  and  looking  steadily  into  my  eyes  he  said  sol- 
emnly, "  You  will  be  safe.  No  evil  come  near  you." 

"Thank  you,  Hard  Rope,  but  I  will  keep  my  powder 
dry  just  the  same,"  I  answered. 

All  the  time  in  the  Inman  camp  the  scout  shadowed 
me.  On  the  evening  before  our  start  for  Fort  Hays  to 
be  mustered  out  of  service  he  came  to  me  as  I  sat  alone 
beside  the  Washita,  breathing  deeply  the  warm  air  of 
an  April  twilight.  I  had  heard  no  word  from  home  since 
I  left  Topeka  in  October.  Marjie  must  be  married,  as 
Jean  had  said.  I  had  never  known  the  half-breed  to  tell 
a  lie.  It  was  so  long  ago  that  that  letter  of  hers  to  me 
had  miscarried.  She  thought  of  course  that  I  had  taken 
it  and  even  then  refused  to  stay  at  home.  Oh,  it  was  all 
a  hopeless  tangle,  and  now  I  might  be  dreaming  of  an- 
other man's  wife.  I  had  somehow  grown  utterly  hopeless 
now.  Jean  —  oh,  the  thought  was  torture  —  I  could  not 
feel  sure  about  him.  He  might  be  shadowing  her  night 
and  day.  Custer  did  not  tell  me  what  had  become  of 
the  Indian,  and  I  had  seen  on  the  Sweetwater  what  such 
as  he  could  do  for  a  Kansas  girl.  As  I  sat  thus  thinking, 
Hard  Rope  squatted  beside  me. 

"  You  go  at  sunrise  ?  "  pointing  toward  the  east. 

I  merely  nodded. 

"  I  want  to  talk,"  he  went  on. 

"  Well,  talk  away,  Hard  Rope."  I  was  glad  to  quit 
thinking. 

What  he  told  me  there  by  the  rippling  Washita  River 
I  did  not  repeat  for  many  months,  but  I  wrung  his  hand 
when  I  said  good-bye.  Of  all  the  scouts  with  Custer  that 
we  left  behind  when  we  started  northward,  none  had  so 
large  a  present  of  tobacco  as  Hard  Rope. 

My  father  had  demanded  that  I  return  to  Springvale 

467 


THE    PRICE     OF     THE    PRAIRIE 

as  soon  as  our  regiment  was  mustered  out.  Morton  was 
still  in  the  East,  and  I  had  no  foothold  in  the  Saline  Val- 
ley as  I  had  hoped  in  the  Fall  to  have.  Nor  was  there 
any  other  place  that  opened  its  doors  to  me.  And  withal 
I  was  homesick  —  desperately,  ravenously  homesick. 
I  wanted  to  see  my  father  and  Aunt  Candace,  to  look  once 
more  on  the  peaceful  Neosho  and  the  huge  oak  trees  down 
in  its  fertile  valley.  For  nearly  half  a  year  I  had  not 
seen  a  house,  nor  known  a  civilized  luxury.  No  child  ever 
yearned  for  home  and  mother  as  I  longed  for  Springvale. 
And  most  of  all  came  an  overwhelming  eagerness  to  see 
Marjie  once  more.  She  was  probably  Mrs.  Judson  now, 
unless  Jean  —  but  Hard  Rope  had  eased  my  mind  a  little 
there  —  and  I  had  no  right  even  to  think  of  her.  Only 
I  was  young,  and  I  had  loved  her  so  long.  All  that  fierce 
battle  with  myself  which  I  fought  out  on  the  West 
Prairie  on  the  night  she  refused  to  let  me  speak  to  her 
had  to  be  fought  over  again.  And  this  time,  marching 
northward  over  the  April  Plains  toward  Fort  Hays,  this 
time,  I  was  hopelessly  vanquished.  I,  Philip  Baronet, 
who  had  fought  with  fifty  against  a  thousand  on  the 
Arickaree ;  who  had  gone  with  Custer  to  the  Sweetwater 
in  the  dreary  wastes  of  the  Texas  desert;  I  who  had  a 
little  limp  now  and  then  in  my  right  foot,  left  out  too 
long  in  the  cold,  too  long  made  to  keep  step  in  weary  ways 
on  endlessly  wearing  marches;  I  who  had  lost  the  soft- 
ness of  the  boy's  physique  and  who  was  muscled  like  a 
man,  with  something  of  the  military  bearing  hammered 
mercilessly  upon  me  in  the  days  of  soldier  life  —  I  was 
still  madly  in  love  with  a  girl  who  had  refused  all  my 
pleadings  and  was  even  now,  maybe,  another  man's  wife. 
Oh,  cold  and  terror  and  starvation  were  all  bad  enough, 
but  this  was  unendurable. 

"  I  will  go  home  as  my  father  wishes,"  I  said.    "  I  do 


THE    HERITAGE 

not  need  to  stay  there,  but  I  will  go  now  for  a  while  and 
feel  once  more  what  civilization  means.  Then  —  I  will 
go  to  the  Plains,  or  somewhere  else."  So  I  argued  as  we 
came  one  April  day  into  Fort  Hays.  Letters  from  home 
were  awaiting  me,  urging  me  to  come  at  once;  and  I 
went,  leaving  O'mie  to  follow  later  when  he  should  have 
rested  at  the  Fort  a  little. 

All  Kansas  was  in  its  Maytime  glory.  From  the 
freshly  ploughed  earth  came  up  that  sweet  wholesome 
odor  that  like  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay  carries  its  own 
traditions  of  other  days  to  each  of  us.  The  young  or- 
chards —  there  were  not  many  orchards  in  Kansas  then  — 
were  all  a  blur  of  pink  on  the  hill  slopes.  A  thousand 
different  blossoms  gemmed  the  prairies,  making  a  perfect 
kaleidoscope  of  brilliant  hues,  that  blended  with  the  shift- 
ing shades  of  green.  Along  the  waterways  the  cotton- 
wood's  silvery  branches,  tipped  with  tender  young  leaves 
fluttering  in  the  soft  wind,  stood  up  proudly  above  the 
scrubby  bronze  and  purple  growths  hardly  yet  in  bud 
and  leaf.  From  every  gentle  swell  the  landscape  swept 
away  to  the  vanishing  line  of  distances  in  billowy  seas 
of  green  and  gold,  while  far  overhead  arched  the  deep- 
blue  skies  of  May.  Fleecy  clouds,  white  and  soft  as  foam, 
drifted  about  in  the  limitless  fields  of  ether.  The  glory 
of  the  new  year,  the  fresh  sweet  air,  the  spirit  of  budding 
life,  set  the  pulses  a-tingle  with  the  very  joy  of  being. 
Like  a  dream  of  Paradise  lay  the  Neosho  Valley  in  its 
wooded  beauty,  with  field  and  farm,  the  meadow,  and 
the  open  unending  prairie  rolling  away  from  it,  wave  on 
wave,  in  the  Maytime  grace  and  grandeur.  Through  this 
valley  the  river  itself  wound  in  and  out,  glistening  like 
molten  silver  in  the  open  spaces,  and  gliding  still  and 
shadowy  by  overhanging  cliff  and  wooded  covert. 

"  Dever,"  I  said  to  the  stage  driver  when  we  had  reached 

469 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

the  top  of  the  divide  and  looked  southward  to  where  all 
this  magnificence  of  nature  was  lavishly  spread  out,  "  De- 
ver,  do  you  remember  that  passage  in  the  Bible  about 
the  making  of  the  world  long  ago,  '  And  God  saw  that  it 
was  good '  ?  Well,  here 's  where  all  that  happened." 

Dever  laughed  a  crowing  laugh  of  joy.  He  had  hugged 
me  when  I  took  the  stage,  I  did  n't  know  why.  When  it 
came  to  doing  the  nice  thing,  Dever  had  a  sense  of  pro- 
priety sometimes  that  better-bred  folk  might  have  envied. 
And  this  journey  home  proved  it. 

"  I  Ve  got  a  errant  up  West.  D  'ye  's  lief  come  into 
town  that  way?  "  he  asked  me. 

Would  I?  I  was  longing  to  slip  into  my  home  before 
I  ran  the  gantlet  of  all  the  streets  opening  on  the  Santa 
Fe  Trail.  I  never  did  know  what  Dever' s  "  errant " 
was,  that  led  him  to  swing  some  miles  to  the  west,  out 
of  the  way  to  the  ford  of  the  Neosho  above  the  old  stone 
cabin  where  Father  Le  Claire  swam  his  horse  in  the 
May  flood  six  years  before.  He  gave  no  reason  for  the  act 
that  brought  me  over  a  road,  every  foot  sacred  to  the 
happiest  moments  of  my  life.  Past  the  big  cottonwood, 
down  into  the  West  Draw  where  the  pink  blossoms 
called  in  sweet  insistent  tones  to  me  to  remember  a  day 
when  I  had  crowned  a  little  girl  with  blooms  like  these, 
a  day  when  my  life  was  in  its  Maytime  joy.  On  across 
the  prairie  we  swung  to  the  very  borders  of  Springvale, 
which  was  nestling  by  the  river  and  stretching  up  the 
hillslope  toward  where  the  bluff  breaks  abruptly.  I 
could  see  "  Rockport "  gray  and  sun-flecked  beyond  its 
sheltering  line  of  green  bushes. 

Just  as  we  turned  toward  Cliff  Street  Dever  said  care- 
lessly, 

"  Lots  of  changes  some  ways  sence  I  took  you  out  of 
here  last  August.  Judson,  he  's  married  two  months  ago." 

470 


THE    HERITAGE 

The  warm  sunny  glorious  world  turned  drab  and  cold 
to  me  with  the  words. 

"What's  the  matter,  Baronet?  —  you're  whiter 'n  a 
dead  man ! " 

"Just  a  little  faint.  Got  that  way  in  the  army,"  I  an- 
swered, which  was  a  lie. 

"Better  now?  As  I  was  sayin',  Judson  and  Lettie  has 
been  married  two  months  now.  Kinder  surprised  folks 
by  jinin'  up  sudden ;  but  —  oh,  well,  it 's  a  lot  better  quick 
than  not  at  all  sometimes." 

I  caught  my  breath.  My  "spell"  contracted  in  the 
army  was  passing.  And  here  were  Cliff  Street  and  the 
round  turret-like  corners  of  Judge  Baronet's  stone- 
built  domicile.  It  was  high  noon,  and  my  father  had 
just  gone  into  the  house.  I  gave  Dever  his  fare  and 
made  the  hall  door  at  a  leap.  My  father  turned  at  the 
sound  and  —  I  was  in  his  arms.  Then  came  Aunt 
Candace,  older  by  more  than  ten  months.  Oh,  the 
women  are  the  ones  who  suffer  most.  I  had  not 
thought  until  that  moment  what  all  this  winter  of  absence 
meant  to  Candace  Baronet.  I  held  her  in  my  strong 
arms  and  looked  down  into  her  love-hungry  eyes. 
Men  are  such  stupid  unfeeling  brutes.  I  am,  at  least; 
for  I  had  never  read  in  this  dear  woman's  face  until  that 
instant  what  must  have  been  written  there  all  these 
years, —  the  love  that  might  have  been  given  to  a  hus- 
band and  children  of  her  own,  this  lonely,  childless 
woman  had  given  to  me. 

"  Aunty,  I  '11  never  leave  you  again,"  I  declared,  as  she 
clung  to  me,  and  patted  my  cheeks  and  stroked  my  rough 
curly  hair. 

We  sat  down  together  to  the  midday  meal,  and  my 
father's  blessing  was  like  the  benediction  of  Heaven  to 
my  ears. 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Springvale  also  had  its  measure  of  good  breeding.  My 
coming  was  the  choicest  news  that  Dever  had  had  to 
give  out  for  many  a  day,  and  the  circulation  was  amazing 
in  its  rapid  transit.  I  had  a  host  of  friends  here  where 
I  had  grown  to  manhood,  and  the  first  impulse  was  to 
take  Cliff  Street  by  storm.  It  was  Cam  Gentry  who 
counselled  better  methods. 

"  Now,  by  hen,  let 's  have  some  sense,"  he  urged,  "  the 
boy  's  jest  got  here.  He 's  ben  through  life  and  death, 
er  tarnation  nigh  akin  to  it.  Let's  let  him  be  with  his 
own  till  to-morror.  Jest  ac  like  we'd  had  a  grain  o' 
raisin'  anyhow,  and  wait  our  turn.  Ef  he  shows  hisself 
down  on  this  'er  street  we'll  jest  go  out  and  turn  the 
Neoshy  runnin'  north  for  an  hour  and  a  half  while  we 
carry  him  around  dry  shod.  But  now,  to-day,  let  him 
come  out  o'  hidin',  and  we  '11  give  him  welcome ;  but 
ef  he  stays  up  there  with  Candace,  we  '11  be  gentlemen 
fur  oncet  ef  it  does  purty  nigh  kill  some  of  us." 

w  Cam  is  right,"  Cris  Mead  urged.  "  If  he  comes 
down  here  he  '11  take  his  chances,  but  we  '11  hold  our  fire 
on  the  hill  till  to-morrow." 

"Well,  by  cracky,  the  Baronets  never  miss  prayer 
meeting,  I  guess.  Springvale  will  turn  out  to-night 
some,"  Grandpa  Mead  declared. 

And  so  while  I  revelled  in  a  home-coming,  thankful  to 
be  alone  with  my  own  people,  the  best  folks  on  earth 
were  waiting  and  dodging  about,  but  courteously  abstain- 
ing from  rushing  in  on  our  sacred  home  rights. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  Cam  Gentry  called  to 
Dollie  to  come  to  his  aid. 

"  Jest  tie  the  end  of  this  rope  good  and  fast  around  this 
piazzer  post,"  he  said. 

His  wife  obeyed  before  she  noted  that  the  other  end 

472 


THE    HERITAGE 

was  fastened  around  Cam's  right  ankle.     To  her  wonder- 
ing look  he  responded: 

"  Ef  I  don't  lariat  myself  to  something,  like  a  old  hen 
wanting  to  steal  off  with  her  chickens,  I  '11  be  up  to  Bar- 
onet's spite  of  my  efforts,  I  'm  that  crazy  to  see  Phil  once 
more." 

Through  the  remainder  of  the  May  afternoon  he  sat 
on  the  veranda,  or  hopped  the  length  of  his  tether  to  the 
side-walk  and  looked  longingly  up  toward  the  high  street, 
that  faced  the  cliff,  but  his  purpose  did  not  change. 

Springvale  showed  its  sense  of  delicacy  in  more  ways 
than  this.  Marjie  was  the  last  to  hear  of  my  leaving 
when  all  suddenly  I  turned  my  back  on  the  town  nearly 
ten  months  before.  And  now,  while  almost  every  family 
had  discussed  my  return  —  anything  furnishes  a  little 
town  a  sensation  —  the  Whately  family  had  had  no  notice 
served  of  the  momentarily  interesting  topic.  And  so  it 
was  that  Marjie,  innocent  of  the  suppressed  interest,  went 
about  her  home,  never  dreaming  of  anything  unusual  in 
the  town  talk  of  that  day. 

The  May  evening  was  delicious  in  its  balmy  air  and  the 
deepening  purple  of  its  twilight  haze.  The  spirit  of  the 
springtime,  wooing  in  its  tone  of  softest  music,  voiced  a 
message  to  the  sons  and  daughters  of  men.  Marjie  came 
out  at  sunset  and  slowly  took  her  way  through  the  sweet- 
ness of  it  all  up  to  the  "  Rockport "  of  our  childhood,  the 
trysting  place  of  our  days  of  love's  young  dream.  Her 
fair  face  had  a  womanly  strength  and  tenderness  now, 
and  her  form  an  added  grace  over  the  curves  of  girlhood. 
But  her  hair  still  rippled  about  her  brow  and  coiled  in 
the  same  soft  folds  of  brown  at  the  back  of  her  head.  Her 
cheeks  had  still  the  pink  of  the  wild  rose  bloom,  and  the 
dainty  neatness  in  dress  was  as  of  old. 

473 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

She  came  to  the  rock  beyond  the  bushes  and  sat  down 
alone  looking  dreamily  out  over  the  Neosho  Valley. 

''You'll  go  to  prayer  meeting,  Phil?"  Aunt  Candace 
asked  at  supper. 

"  Yes,  but  I  believe  I  '11  go  down  the  street  first.  Save 
a  place  for  me.  I  want  to  see  Dr.  Hemingway  next  to 
you  of  all  Springvale."  Which  was  my  second  falsehood 
for  that  day.  I  needed  prayer  meeting. 

The  sunset  hour  was  more  than  I  could  withstand.  All 
the  afternoon  I  had  been  subconsciously  saying  that  I 
must  keep  close  to  the  realities.  These  were  all  that 
counted  now.  And  yet  when  the  evening  came,  all  the 
past  swept  my  soul  and  bore  every  resolve  before  it.  I 
did  not  stop  to  ask  myself  any  questions.  I  only  knew 
that,  lonely  as  it  must  be,  I  must  go  now  to  "  Rockport " 
as  I  had  done  so  many  times  in  the  old  happy  past,  a 
past  I  was  already  beginning  numbly  to  feel  was  dead 
and  gone  forever.  And  yet  my  step  was  firm  and  my 
head  erect,  as  with  eager  tread  I  came  to  the  bushes 
guarding  our  old  happy  playground.  I  only  wanted  to 
see  it  once  more,  that  was  all. 

The  limp  had  gone  from  my  foot.  It  was  intermittent 
in  the  earlier  years.  I  was  combed  and  groomed  again 
for  social  appearing.  Aunt  Candace  had  hung  about  my 
tie  and  the  set  of  my  coat,  and  for  my  old  army  headgear 
she  had  resurrected  the  jaunty  cap  I  had  worn  home 
from  Massachusetts.  With  my  hands  in  my  pockets, 
whistling  softly  to  abstract  my  thoughts,  I  slipped  through 
the  bushes  and  stood  once  more  on  "  Rockport." 

And  there  was  Marjie,  still  looking  dreamily  out  over 
the  valley.  She  had  not  heard  my  step,  so  far  away 
were  her  thoughts.  And  the  picture,  as  I  stood  a  mo- 
ment looking  at  her  —  will  the  world  to  come  hold  any- 
thing more  fair,  I  wondered.  It  was  years  ago,  I  know, 

474 


THE    HERITAGE 

but  so  clearly  I  recall  it  now  it  could  have  been  a  dream 
of  yesterday.  Before  me  were  the  gray  rock,  the  dark- 
green  valley,  the  gleaming  waters  of  the  Neosho,  the 
silvery  mist  on  the  farther  bluff  iridescent  with  the  pink 
tints  of  sunset  reflected  on  the  eastern  sky,  the  quiet 
loveliness  of  the  May  twilight,  and  Marjie,  beautiful  with 
a  girlish  winsomeness,  a  woman's  grace,  a  Madonna's 
tenderness. 

"  Were  you  waiting  for  me,  dearie?  I  am  a  little  late, 
but  I  am  here  at  last." 

I  spoke  softly,  and  she  turned  quickly  at  the  sound  of 
my  voice.  A  look  of  dazed  surprise  as  she  leaped  to  her 
feet,  and  then  the  reality  dawned  upon  her. 

"  Come,  sweetheart,"  I  said.  "  I  have  been  away  so 
long,  I  'm  hungering  for  your  welcome." 

I  held  out  my  hands  to  her.  Her  face  was  very  white 
as  she  made  one  step  toward  me,  and  then  the  love-light 
filled  her  brown  eyes,  the  glorious  beauty  of  the  pink 
blossoms  swept  her  cheek.  I  put  my  arms  around  her 
and  drew  her  close  to  me,  my  own  little  girl,  whom  I  had 
loved  and  thought  I  had  lost  forever. 

"Oh,  Phil,  Phil,  are  you  here  again?  Are  you — "  she 
put  her  little  hand  against  my  hair  curling  rebelliously 
over  my  cap's  brim.  "Are  you  mine  once  more?" 

"Am  I,  Marjie?  Six  feet  of  me  has  come  back;  but, 
little  girl,  I  have  never  been  away.  I  have  never  let  you 
go  out  of  my  life.  It  was  only  the  mechanical  action 
that  went  away.  Phil  Baronet  stayed  here !  Oh,  I  know 
it  now  —  I  was  acting  out  there ;  I  was  really  living  here 
with  you,  my  Marjie,  my  own." 

I  held  her  in  my  arms  as  I  spoke,  and  we  looked  out 
at  the  sweet  sunset  prairie.  The  big  cottonwood,  shapely 
as  ever,  was  outlined  against  the  horizon,  which  was 
illumined  now  with  all  the  gorgeous  grandeur  of  the  May 

475 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

evening.  The  level  rays  of  golden  light  fell  on  us,  as  we 
stood  there,  baptizing  us  with  its  splendor. 

"  Oh,  Marjie,  it  was  worth  all  the  suffering  and  danger 
to  have  such  a  home-coming  as  this ! "  I  kissed  her  lips 
and  pushed  back  the  little  ringlets  from  her  white  fore- 
head. 

"  It  is  vouchsafed  to  a  man  sometimes  to  know  a  bit 
of  heaven  here  on  earth,"  Father  Le  Claire  had  said  to 
me  out  on  this  rock  six  years  before.  It  was  a  bit  of 
heaven  that  came  down  to  me  in  the  purple  twilight  of 
that  May  evening,  and  I  lifted  my  face  to  the  opal  skies 
above  me  with  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  for  the  love  that 
was  mine  once  more.  In  that  hour  of  happiness  we  for- 
got that  there  was  ever  a  storm  cloud  to  darken  the 
blue  heavens,  or  ever  a  grief  or  a  sin  to  mar  the  joy  of 
living.  We  were  young,  and  we  were  together.  Over 
the  valley  swept  the  sweet  tones  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church  bell.  Marjie's  face,  radiant  with  light,  was  lifted 
to  mine. 

"  I  must  go  to  prayer  meeting,  Phil.  I  shall  see  you 
again  —  to-morrow?"  She  put  the  question  hesitatingly, 
even  longingly. 

"Yes,  and  to-night.  Let's  go  together.  I  haven't 
been  to  prayer  meeting  regularly.  We  lost  out  on  that 
on  the  Staked  Plains." 

"  I  must  run  home  and  comb  my  hair,"  she  declared ; 
and  indeed  it  was  a  little  tumbled.  But  from  the  night 
I  first  saw  her,  a  little  girl  in  her  father's  moving-wagon, 
with  her  pink  sun-bonnet  pushed  back  from  her  blowsy 
curls,  her  hair,  however  rebellious,  was  always  a  picture. 

"  Go  ahead,  little  girU  I  will  run  home,  too.  I  forgot 
something.  I  will  be  down  right  away." 

Going  home,  I  may  have  walked  on  Cliff  Street,  but 
my  head  was  in  the  clouds,  and  all  the  songs  that  the 

476 


THE     HERITAGE 

morning-stars  sing  together  —  all  the  music  of  the  spheres 
—  was  playing  itself  out  for  me  in  the  shadowy  twilight 
as  I  went  along. 

At  the  gate  Aunt  Candace  and  my  father  were  waiting 
for  me. 

"You  needn't  wait,"  I  cried.  "I  will  be  there  pres- 
ently." 

"  Oh,  joined  the  regular  army  this  time,"  my  father 
said,  smiling.  "  Sorry  we  can't  keep  you,  Phil."  But  I 
gave  no  heed  to  him. 

"  Aunt  Candace,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  May  I  see 
you  just  a  minute?  I  want  to  get  something." 

"  It  's  in  the  top  drawer  in  my  room,  Phil.  The  key  is 
in  the  little  tray  on  my  dresser,"  Aunt  Candace  said  qui- 
etly. She  always  understood  me. 

When  I  reached  the  Whately  home,  Marjie  was  waiting 
for  me  at  the  gate.  I  took  her  little  hand  in  my  own 
strong  big  one. 

"  Will  you  wear  it  again  for  me,  dearie  ? "  I  asked, 
holding  up  my  mother's  ring  before  her. 

"  Always  and  always,  Phil,"  she  murmured. 

Isn't  it  Longfellow  who  speaks  of  "the  lovely  stars, 
the  forget-me-nots  of  the  angels,"  blossoming  "  in  the  in- 
finite meadows  of  heaven"?  They  were  all  a-bloom  that 
May  night,  and  dewy  and  sweet  lay  the  earth  beneath 
them.  We  were  a  little  late  to  prayer  meeting.  The 
choir  was  in  its  place  and  the  audience  was  gathered  in 
the  pews.  Judge  Baronet  always  sat  near  the  front,  and 
my  place  was  between  him  and  Aunt  Candace  when  I 
was  n't  in  the  choir.  Bess  Anderson  was  just  finishing 
a  voluntary  as  we  two  went  up  the  aisle  together.  I 
had  n't  thought  of  making  a  sensation,  I  thought  only  of 
Marjie.  Passing  around  the  end  of  the  chancel  rail  I 
gently  led  her  by  the  arm  up  the  three  steps  to  the  choir 

477 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

place,  and  turning,  faced  all  the  town  as  I  went  to  my 
seat  beside  my  father.  I  was  as  happy  as  a  lover  can 
be;  but  I  didn't  know  how  much  of  all  this  was  written 
on  my  countenance,  nor  did  I  notice  the  intense  hush  that 
fell  on  the  company.  I  had  faced  the  oncoming  of  Roman 
Nose  and  his  thousand  Cheyenne  warriors;  there  was  no 
reason  why  I  should  feel  embarrassed  in  a  prayer  meeting 
in  the  Presbyterian  Church  at  Springvale.  The  service 
was  short.  I  remember  not  one  word  of  it  except  the 
scripture  lesson.  That  was  the  Twenty-third  Psalm: 

The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want. 

He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures;  He  leadeth  me 
beside  the  still  waters. 

He  restoreth  my  soul;  He  leadeth  me  in  the  paths  of  righteous- 
ness for  His  name's  sake. 

Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
I  will  fear  no  evil;  for  Thou  art  with  me. 

These  words  had  sounded  in  my  ears  on  the  night  be- 
fore the  battle  on  the  Arickaree,  and  again  in  the  little 
cove  on  the  low  bluff  at  Fort  Sill,  the  night  Jean  Pahusca 
was  taunting  me  through  the  few  minutes  he  was  allowing 
me  to  live.  That  Psalm  belonged  to  the  days  when  I  was 
doing  my  part  toward  the  price  paid  out  for  the  prairie 
homes  and  safety  and  peace.  But  never  anybody  read 
for  me  as  Dr.  Hemingway  read  it  that  evening.  With 
the  close  of  the  service  came  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving 
for  my  return.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  was  self-con- 
scious. What  had  I  done  to  be  so  lovingly  and  rever- 
ently welcomed  home?  I  bowed  my  head  in  deep  hu- 
mility, and  the  tears  welled  up.  Oh,  I  could  look  death 
calmly  between  the  eyes  as  I  had  watched  it  creeping 
toward  me  on  the  heated  Plains  of  the  Arickaree,  and 
among  the  cold  starved  sand  dunes  of  the  Cimarron,  but 

478 


THE    HERITAGE 

to  be  lauded  as  a  hero  here  in  Springvale —  THe  tears 
would  come.  Where  were  Custer,  and  Moore,  and  For- 
syth,  and  Pliley,  and  Stillwell,  and  Morton,  if  such  as  I 
be  called  a  hero? 

Cam  Gentry  didn't  lead  the  Doxology  that  night,  he 
chased  it  clear  into  the  belfry  and  up  into  the  very  top 
of  the  steeple;  and  his  closing  burst  of  melody  "Praise 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,"  had,  as  Bill  Mead  de- 
clared afterwards,  a  regular  "  You-could  n't-have-done-it- 
better-Lord-if-you-had-been-there-yourself "  ring  to  it. 

Then  came  the  benediction,  fervent,  holy,  gentle,  with 
Dr.  Hemingway's  white  face  (crowned  now  with  snowy 
hair)  lifted  up  toward  heaven.  After  that  I  never  could 
remember,  save  that  there  was  a  hush,  then  a  clamor,  that 
was  followed  pretty  soon  by  embraces  from  the  older 
men  and  women,  pounding  thumps  from  the  younger 
men  and  handshaking  with  the  girls.  And  all  the  while, 
with  a  proprietary  sense  I  had  found  myself  near  Marjie, 
whom  I  kept  close  beside  me  now,  her  brown  head  just 
above  my  shoulder. 

More  than  once  in  the  decades  since  then  it  has  been 
my  fortune  to  return  to  Springvale  and  be  met  at  the 
railway  station  and  escorted  home  by  the  town  band. 
Sometimes  for  political  service,  sometimes  for  civic  effort, 
and  once  because  by  physical  strength  and  great  daring 
and  quick  cool  courage  I  saved  three  human  lives  in  a 
terrible  wreck ;  but  never  any  ovation  was  like  that  prayer 
meeting  in  the  Presbyterian  Church  nearly  forty  years 
ago. 

The  days  that  followed  my  home-coming  were  busy 
ones,  for  my  place  in  the  office  had  been  vacant.  Clayton 
Anderson  had  devoted  himself  to  the  Whately  affairs, 
although  nobody  but  those  in  the  secret  knew  when  Jud- 
son  gave  up  proprietorship  and  went  on  a  clerk's  pay 

479 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

again  where  he  belonged.  Springvale  was  kind  to  Jud- 
son,  as  it  has  always  been  to  the  man  who  tries  honestly 
to  make  good  in  this  life's  struggle.  It  is  in  the  Kansas 
air,  this  broader  charity,  this  estimation  of  character, 
redeemed  or  redeemable. 

My  father  did  not  tell  me  of  his  part  in  the  Whately 
business  affairs  at  once,  and  I  did  not  understand  when, 
one  evening,  some  time  later,  Aunt  Candace  said  at  the 
supper  table: 

"  Dollie  Gentry  tells  me  Dr.  John  (so  we  called  John 
Anderson  now),  reports  a  twelve-pound  boy  over  at 
Judsons*.  They  are  going  to  christen  him  '  John  Baronet 
Judson/  Are  n't  you  proud  of  the  name,  John?  " 

"I  am  of  the  Judson  part,"  my  father  answered,  with 
that  compression  of  the  lips  that  sometimes  kept  back  a 
smile,  and  sometimes  marked  a  growing  sternness. 

I  met  O'mie  at  Topeka  and  brought  him  to  Springvale. 
It  was  not  until  in  May  of  the  next  year  that  he  went 
away  from  us  and  came  not  back  any  more,  save  in 
loving  remembrance. 

In  August  Tillhurst  went  East.  Somehow  I  was  not 
at  all  surprised  when  the  Rockport,  Massachusetts,  weekly 
newspaper,  that  had  come  to  our  house  every  Tuesday 
while  we  had  lived  on  Cliff  Street,  contained  the  notice 
of  the  marriage  of  Richard  Tillhurst  and  Rachel  Agnes 
Melrose.  The  happy  couple,  the  paper  said,  would  re- 
side in  Rockport. 

"  They  may  reside  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  for  all  that 
I  care,"  I  said  thoughtlessly,  not  understanding  then  the 
shadow  that  fell  for  the  moment  on  my  aunt's  serene 
face. 

Long  afterwards  when  she  slept  beside  my  father  in 
the  quiet  Springvale  cemetery  on  the  bluff  beyond  Fin- 
gal's  Creek,  I  found  among  her  letters  the  romance  of 

480 


THE    HERITAGE 

her  life.  I  knew  then  for  the  first  time  that  Rachel's 
uncle,  the  Ferdinand  Melrose  whose  life  was  lost  at  sea, 
was  the  one  for  whom  this  brave  kind  woman  had 
mourned.  Loving  as  the  Baronets  do,  even  unto  death, 
she  had  gone  down  the  lonely  years,  forgetting  herself 
in  the  broad,  beautiful,  unselfish  life  she  gave  to  those 
about  her. 

It  was  late  in  the  August  of  the  following  year,  when 
the  Kansas  prairies  were  brownest  and  the  summer  heat 
the  fiercest,  that  I  was  met  at  the  courthouse  door  one 
afternoon  by  a  lithe,  coppery  Osage  Indian  boy,  who 
handed  me  a  bundle,  saying,  "  From  Hard  Rope,  for  John 
Baronet's  son." 

"  Well,  all  right,  sonny ;  only  it 's  about  time  for  the 
gentleman  in  there  to  be  known  as  Philip  Baronet's  father. 
He  never  fought  the  Cheyennes.  He 's  just  the  father 
of  the  man  who  did.  What 's  the  tariff  due  on  this 
junk?" 

The  Osage  did  not  smile,  but  he  answered  mildly 
enough,  "What  you  will  pay." 

I  was  not  cross  with  the  world.  I  could  afford  to  be 
generous,  even  at  the  risk  of  having  the  whole  Osage 
tribe  trailing  at  my  heels,  and  begging  for  tobacco  and 
food  and  trinkets.  I  loaded  that  young  buck  to  the 
guards  with  the  things  an  Indian  prizes,  and  sent  him 
away. 

Then  in  my  own  office  I  undid  the  bundle.  It  was  the 
old  scarlet  blanket  with  the  white  circular  centre,  the 
pattern  Jean  Pahusca  always  wore.  This  one  was  dirty 
and  frayed  and  splotched.  I  turned  from  it  with  loathing. 
In  the  folds  of  the  cloth  a  sealed  letter  was  securely 
fastened.  Some  soldier  had  written  it  for  Hard  Rope, 
and  the  penmanship  and  language  were  more  than  average 
fine.  But  the  story  it  told  I  could  not  exult  over,  although 
31  481 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

a  sense  of  lifted  pressure  in  some  corner  of  my  mind 
came  with  the  reading. 

Briefly  it  recited  that  Jean  Pahusca,  Kiowa  renegade, 
was  dead.  Ouster's  penalty  for  him  had  been  to  give  him 
over  to  the  Kiowas  as  their  captive.  When  the  tribe  left 
Fort  Sill  in  March,  Satanta  had  had  him  brought  bound 
to  the  Kiowa  village  then  on  the  lower  Washita.  His 
crime,  committed  on  the  day  of  Ouster's  fight  with  Black 
Kettle,  was  the  heinous  one  of  stealing  his  Uncle  Sa- 
tanta's  youngest  and  favorite  wife,  and  leaving  her  to 
perish  miserably  in  the  cold  of  that  December  month  in 
which  we  also  had  suffered.  His  plan  had  been  to  escape 
from  the  Kiowas  and  reach  the  Cheyennes  on  the  Sweet- 
water  before  we  did,  to  meet  me  there,  and  this  time,  to 
give  no  moment  for  my  rescue.  So  Hard  Rope's  message 
ran.  But  this  was  not  all.  The  punishment  that  fell  on 
Jean  Pahusca  was  in  proportion  to  his  crime,  as  an  Indian 
counts  justice.  He  was  sold  as  a  slave  to  the  Apaches 
and  carried  captive  to  the  mountains  of  Old  Mexico.  Nor 
was  he  ever  liberated  again.  Up  above  the  snow  line, 
with  the  passes  guarded  (for  Jean  was  as  dangerous  to 
his  mother's  race  as  to  his  father's),  he  had  fretted  away 
his  days,  dying  at  last  of  cold  and  cruel  neglect  among  the 
dreary  rocks  of  the  icy  peaks.  This  much  information 
Hard  Rope's  letter  brought.  I  burned  both  the  letter  and 
the  blanket,  telling  no  one  of  them  except  my  father. 

"  This  Hard  Rope  was  for  some  reason  very  friendly  to 
me  on  your  account,"  I  said.  "  He  told  me  on  the  Wash- 
ita the  night  before  we  left  Camp  Inman  that  he  had 
shadowed  Jean  all  the  time  he  was  at  Fort  Sill,  and  had 
more  than  once  prevented  the  half-breed  from  making 
an  attack  on  me.  He  promised  to  let  me  know  what  be- 
came of  Pahusca  if  he  ever  found  out.  He  has  kept  his 
word." 

482 


THE    HERITAGE 

"  I  know  Hard  Rope/'  my  father  said.  "  I  saved  his 
life  one  annuity  day  long  ago.  Tell  Mapleson  had  made 
Jean  Pahusca  drunk.  You  know  what  kind  of  a  beast 
he  was  then.  And  Tell  had  run  this  Osage  into  Jean's 
path,  where  he  would  be  sure  to  lose  his  life,  and  Tell 
would  have  the  big  pile  of  money  Hard  Rope  carried. 
That 's  the  kind  of  beast  Tell  was.  An  Indian  has  his 
own  sense  of  obligation;  and  then  it  is  a  good  asset  to 
be  humane  all  along  the  line  anyhow,  although  I  never 
dreamed  I  was  saving  the  man  who  was  to  save  my  boy." 

"  Shall  we  tell  Le  Claire?  "  I  asked. 

"  Only  that  both  Jean  and  his  father  are  dead.  We  '11 
spare  him  the  rest.  Le  Claire  has  gone  to  St.  Louis  to 
a  monastery.  He  will  never  be  strong  again.  But  he 
is  one  of  the  kings  of  the  earth;  he  has  given  the  best 
years  of  his  manhood  to  build  up  a  kingdom  of  peace  be- 
tween the  white  man  and  the  savage.  No  record  except 
the  Great  Book  of  human  deeds  will  ever  be  able  to  show 
how  much  we  owe  to  men  like  Le  Claire  whose  influence 
has  helped  to  make  a  loyal  peaceful  tribe  like  the  Osages. 
The  brutal  fiendishness  of  the  Plains  Indians  is  the  her- 
itage of  Spanish  cruelty  toward  the  ancestors  of  the 
Apache  and  Kiowa  and  Arapahoe  and  Comanche,  and 
you  can  see  why  they  differ  from  our  tribes  here  in  East- 
ern Kansas.  Le  Claire  has  done  his  part  toward  the 
purchase  of  the  Plains,  and  I  am  glad  for  the  quiet  years 

before  him." 

Bancroft 

It  was  the  custom  in  Springvale  for  every  girl  to  go 
up  to  Topeka  for  the  final  purchases  of  her  bridal  belong- 
ings. We  were  to  be  married  in  October.  In  the  late 
September  days  Mrs.  Whately  and  her  daughter  spent  a 
week  at  the  capital  city.  I  went  up  at  the  end  of  the  visit 
to  come  home  with  them.  Since  the  death  of  Irving 

483 


THE    PRICE    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Whately  nothing  had  ever  roused  his  wife  to  the  pleas- 
ure of  living  like  this  preparation  for  Marjie's  marriage, 
and  Mrs.  Whately,  still  a  young  and  very  pretty  woman, 
bloomed  into  that  mature  comeliness  that  carries  a  grace 
of  permanence  the  promise  of  youth  may  only  hint  at. 
She  delighted  in  every  detail  of  the  coming  event,  and  we 
two  most  concerned  were  willing  to  let  anybody  look 
after  the  details.  We  had  other  matters  to  think  about. 

"  Come,  little  sweetheart,"  I  said  one  night  after 
supper  at  the  Teft  House,  "  your  mother  is  to  spend  the 
evening  with  a  friend  of  hers.  I  want  to  take  you  for  a 
walk." 

Strange  how  beautiful  Topeka  looked  to  me  this  Sep- 
tember. It  had  all  the  making  of  a  handsome  city 
even  then,  although  the  year  since  I  came  up  to  the 
political  rally  had  brought  no  great  change  except  to 
extend  the  borders  somewhat.  Like  two  happy  young 
lovers  we  strolled  out  toward  the  southwest,  past  the  hole 
in  the  ground  that  was  to  contain  the  foundation  of  the 
new  wings  for  the  State  Capitol,  past  Washburn  College, 
and  on  to  where  the  slender  little  locust  tree  waved  its 
dainty  lacy  branches  in  graceful  welcome. 

"  Marjie,  I  want  you  to  see  this  tree.  It 's  not  the  first 
time  I  have  been  here.  Rachel  —  Mrs.  Tillhurst  —  and 
I  came  here  a  few  times."  Marjie's  hand  nestled  softly 
against  my  arm.  "I  always  made  faces  at  it  as  soon 
as  I  got  away  from  it;  but  it  is  a  beautiful  little  tree,  and 
I  want  to  put  you  with  it  in  my  mind.  It  was  here  last 
Fall  that  my  father  said  he  did  n't  believe  that  you  were 
engaged  to  Amos  Judson." 

"  Did  n't  believe,"  Marjie  cried ;  "  why,  Phil,  he  knew 
I  wasn't.  I  told  him  so  when  he  was  asked  to  urge  me 
to  marry  Amos." 

484 


THE    HERITAGE 

"  He  urge  you  to  marry  Amos !  Now  Marjie,  girl,  I 
hate  to  be  hard  on  the  gentleman ;  but  if  he  did  that  it 's 
my  duty  to  scalp  him,  and  I  will  go  home  and  do  it." 

But  Marjie  explained.  We  sat  in  the  moonlight  by  the 
locust-tree  just  as  Rachel  and  I  had  done;  only  now 
Topeka  and  the  tree  and  the  silvery  prairie  and  the  black- 
shadowed  Shunganunga  Creek,  winding  down  toward  the 
Kaw  through  many  devious  turns,  all  seemed  a  fairy  land 
which  the  moonbeams  touched  and  glorified  for  us  two. 
I  can  never  think  of  Topeka,  even  to-day,  with  its  broad 
avenues  and  beautiful  shaded  parks  and  paved  ways,  its 
handsome  homes  and  churches  and  colleges,  with  all  these 
to  make  it  a  proud  young  city  —  I  can  never  think  of  it 
and  leave  out  that  sturdy  young  locust,  grown  now  to  a 
handsome  tree.  And  when  I  think  of  it  I  do  not  think 
of  the  beautiful  black-haired  Eastern  girl,  with  her  rich 
dress  and  aristocratic  manner.  But  always  that  sweet- 
faced,  brown-eyed  Kansas  girl  is  with  me  there.  And 
the  open  prairie  dipping  down  to  the  creek,  and  the 
purple  tip  of  Burnett's  Mound,  make  a  setting  for  the 
picture. 

One  October  day  when  the  wooded  valley  of  the 
Neosho  was  in  its  autumn  glory,  when  the  creeping  vines 
on  the  gray  stone  bluff  were  aflame  with  the  frost's  rich 
scarlet  painting,  and  the  west  prairies  were  all  one  shim- 
mering sea  of  gold  flecked  with  emerald  and  purple; 
while  above  all  these  curved  the  wide  magnificent  skies 
of  Kansas,  unclouded,  fathomless,  and  tenderly  blue ;  when 
the  peace  of  God  was  in  the  air  and  his  benediction  of 
love  was  on  all  the  land, —  on  such  a  day  as  this,  the 
clear-toned  old  Presbyterian  Church  bell  rang  the  wed- 
ding chimes  for  Marjory  Whately  and  Philip  Baronet. 

485 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

Loving  hands  had  made  the  church  a  bower  of  autumn 
coloring  with  the  dainty  relief  of  pink  and  white  asters 
against  the  bronze  richness  of  the  season.  Bess  Ander- 
son played  the  wedding  march,  as  we  two  came  up  the 
aisle  together  and  met  Dr.  Hemingway  at  the  chancel 
rail.  I  was  in  my  young  manhood's  zenith,  and  I  walked 
the  earth  like  a  king.  Marjie  wore  my  mother's  wedding 
veil.  Her  white  gown  was  soft  and  filmy,  a  fabric  of 
her  mother's  own  choosing,  and  her  brown  wavy  hair  was 
crowned  with  orange  blossoms. 

Springvale  talked  of  that  wedding  for  many  a  moon, 
for  there  was  not  a  feature  of  the  whole  beautiful  service, 
even  to  the  very  least  appointment,  that  was  not  perfect 
in  its  simplicity  and  harmonious  in  its  blending  with 
everything  about  it. 

Among  the  guests  in  the  Baronet  home,  where  every- 
body came  to  wish  us  happiness,  was  my  father's  friend 
and  my  own  hero,  Morton  of  the  Saline  Valley.  Some- 
how I  needed  his  presence  that  day.  It  kept  me  in  touch 
with  my  days  of  greatest  schooling.  The  quiet,  forceful 
friend,  who  had  taught  me  how  to  meet  the  realities  of 
life  like  a  man,  put  into  my  wedding  a  memory  I  shall 
always  treasure.  O'mie  was  still  with  us  then.  When 
his  turn  came  to  greet  us  he  held  Marjie's  hand  a  moment 
while  he  slyly  showed  her  a  poor  little  bunch  of  faded 
brown  blossoms  which  he  crumpled  to  dust  in  his  fingers. 

"  I  told  you  I  would  n't  keep  them  no  longer  'n  till  I 
caught  the  odor  of  them  orange  blooms.  They  are  the 
little  pink  wreath  two  other  fellows  threw  away  out  in 
the  West  Draw  long  ago.  The  rale  evidence  of  my  good- 
will to  you  two  is  locked  up  in  Judge  Baronet's  safe." 

We  laughed,  but  we  did  not  understand.  Not  until  the 
Irish  boy's  will  was  read,  more  than  half  a  year  later, 

486 


THE     HERITAGE 

when  the  pink  flowers  were  blooming  again  in  the  West 
Draw,  did  we  comprehend  the  measure  of  his  good-will. 
For  by  his  legal  last  wish  all  his  possessions,  including 
the  land,  with  the  big  cottonwood  and  the  old  stone  cabin, 
became  the  property  of  Marjory  Whately  and  her  heirs 
and  assigns  forever. 

Out  there  in  later  years  we  built  our  country  home. 
The  breezes  of  summer  are  always  cool  there,  and  from 
every  wide  window  we  can  see  the  landscape  the  old  cot- 
tonwood still  watches  over.  Above  the  gateway  to  the 
winding  road  leading  up  from  the  West  Draw  is  inscribed 
the  name  we  gave  the  place, 

O'MIE-HEIM. 

Sixty  years,  and  a  white-haired,  young-hearted  young 
man  I  am  who  write  these  lines.  For  many  seasons  I 
have  sat  on  the  Judge's  bench.  Law  has  been  my  busi- 
ness on  the  main  line,  with  land  dealings  on  the  side,  and 
love  for  my  fellowmen  all  along  the  way.  Half  a  century 
of  my  life  has  run  parallel  with  the  story  of  Kansas, 
whose  beautiful  prairies  have  been  purchased  not  only 
with  the  coin  of  the  country,  but  with  the  coin  of  courage 
and  unparalleled  endurance.  To-day  the  rippling  billows 
of  yellow  wheat,  the  walls  on  walls  of  black-green  corn, 
the  stretches  of  emerald  alfalfa  set  with  its  gems  of 
amethyst  bloom;  orchard  and  meadow,  grove  and  grassy 
upland,  where  cattle  pasture ;  populous  cities  and  churches 
and  stately  college  halls ;  the  whirring  factory  wheels,  the 
dust  of  the  mines,  the  black  oil  derrick  and  the  huge 
reservoirs  of  natural  gas,  with  the  slender  steel  pathways 
of  the  great  trains  of  traffic  binding  these  together;  and 
above  all,  the  sheltered  happy  homes,  where  little  children 

487 


THE    PRICE     OF    THE     PRAIRIE 

play  never  dreaming  of  fear ;  where  sweet-browed  mothers 
think  not  of  loneliness  and  anguish  and  peril  —  all  these 
are  the  splendid  heritage  of  a  land  whose  law  is  for  the 
whole  people,  a  land  whose  God  is  the  Lord. 

Slowly,  through  tribulation,  and  distress,  and  persecu- 
tion, and  famine,  and  nakedness,  and  peril,  and  sword; 
through  fire  and  flood;  through  summer's  drought  and 
winter's  blizzard;  through  loneliness,  and  fear,  and  hero- 
ism, and  martyrdom  too  often  at  last,  the  brave-hearted, 
liberty-loving,  indomitable  people  have  come  into  their 
own,  paying  foot  by  foot,  the  price  that  won  this  prairie 
kingdom  in  the  heart  of  the  West. 

Down  through  the  years  of  busy  cares,  of  struggle  and 
achievement,  of  hopes  deferred  and  victories  counted,  my 
days  have  run  in  shadow  and  sunshine,  with  more  of 
practical  fact  than  of  poetic  dreaming.  And  through  them 
all,  the  call  of  the  prairie  has  sounded  in  my  soul,  the 
voice  of  a  beautiful  land,  singing  evermore  its  old,  old 
song  of  victory  and  peace.  Aye,  and  through  it  all,  beside 
me,  cheering  each  step,  holding  fast  my  hand,  making 
life  always  fine  and  beautiful  and  gracious  for  me,  has 
been  my  loved  one,  Marjie,  the  bride  of  my  young  man- 
hood, the  mother  of  my  sons  and  daughters,  the  light  of 
my  life. 

It  is  for  such  as  she,  for  homes  her  kind  have  made, 
that  men  have  fought  and  dared  and  died,  fulfilling  the 
high  privilege  of  the  American  citizen,  the  privilege  to 
safeguard  the  hearthstones  of  the  land  above  which  the 
flag  floats  a  symbol  of  light  and  law  and  love. 

And  I  who  write  this  know  —  for  I  have  learned  in  the 
years  whose  story  is  here  only  a  half-told  thing  under  my 
halting  pen  —  I  know  that  however  fiercely  the  storms 
may  beat,  however  wildly  the  tempests  may  blow,  how- 

488 


THE    HERITAGE 

ever  bitter  the  fighting  hours  of  the  day  may  be,  beyond 
the  heat  and  burden  of  it  all  will  come  the  quiet  eventide 
for  me,  and  for  all  the  sons  and  daughters  of  this  prairie 
land  I  love.  Though  the  roar  of  battle  fill  all  the  noon- 
time, in  the  blessed  twilight  will  come  the  music  of 
"  HOME,  SWEET  HOME." 


THE    END 


489 


